


Cast A Shadow

by shelkenz



Category: Fantastic Four, Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Marvel 616
Genre: (But Happy For Whom?), (Enemies to Lovers But With Some Weird Points Between), Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dom/sub Undertones, Dream Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Idiots in Love, M/M, Marvel 616 References, Marvel Universe, Mutual Pining, Origin Story, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Reed Richards is a bit of a badass, Reed might be slightly not good, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smart People Making Stupid Choices, Topping from the Bottom, Victor is still learning how to Doom, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-03-10 01:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18928435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelkenz/pseuds/shelkenz
Summary: This got entirely out of my control. Started as a one-shot smutfic, but...Slightly AU-from-canon setting: Victor, last of the Rromani ruling family Von Doom, asks Reed Richards to help him modernize his kingdom. Together, they build a half-futuristic, utopian world... but with a price, since everyone there still lives under the rule of Doom. Reed has no illusions, he knows exactly how Victor is, and Victor knows him just as well. Sooner or later, he's going to have to find a way to keep the world safe from him. No matter how he feels about it all. Some things are just inevitable.Both men are divided, torn between what they want and what they feel destined to do. And in the middle is the whole world.





	1. a fever you can't sweat out

**Author's Note:**

> Title from this quote:  
> “When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow.”  
> ― Ursula K. Le Guin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (this is where it all started--really, it was meant to be a one-shot smutfic with a loosely-defined au verse setting IT WAS ONLY A KISS HOW DID IT END UP LIKE THIS)

      They’d done this particular dance before, though never quite so openly; never without the veneer of _business_ to disguise any other intentions. Still, just as always, the king called and his trusted scientific aide arrived, all whispered rumors in the castle kept behind closed doors and well out of Doom’s hearing.

      No one fully understood the exact nature of the conflict between the two of them (or if it was even a ‘conflict’ at all), especially since they seemed to have so much in common otherwise. One had been to the stars, One had been–quite literally–to Hell and back, they’d both learned very different things in their respective travels and somehow Victor had induced Dr. Richards to stay on in Latveria a portion of the year, in exchange for whatever funding he needed and the rights to launch and land anything he wished. Though always under Doom’s watchful eye, of course. Always with the royal-green crest of Victor’s previous homeland stamped boldly on one side.

      His very own pet genius.

      But if Victor harbored any illusions that Reed Richards saw _himself_ that way, they were immediately shattered on actual contact with the man–who never kowtowed or used honorifics, never knelt or begged for favors. Who still, after all this time, called him by his first name as if they were in school together again; as if he didn’t outrank him so completely that there was no basis for comparison at all.

      It was a constant irritant to Doom, and an ongoing source of amusement and concern among his staff as they watched him leave these meetings frustrated, muttering under his breath, locking himself away in his office or his own private lab and shouting obscenities against Richards’ name, his profession, his family, and everything he stood for.

      The solution was obvious to most of them: these two needed to get it out of their system. And they needed to do it quickly, because living with their ruler’s increasing obsession was tedious at best and his refusal to acknowledge it for what it was… that was just _exhausting._

      Equally annoying was the smug delight Reed seemed to take in thwarting Victor’s efforts to pin him down in any way (a fact most of the household staff admired, even if they didn’t dare voice it). And if he occasionally showed just a flicker of something else in close proximity, at late hours on the rare nights that they _weren’t_ at each other’s throats, if he excused himself early with no reason given and angered the king he refused to accept as _his_ by simply walking out of a meeting because their hips had bumped together and now he couldn’t settle his thoughts down and focus on the problem at hand…

      That only complicated matters even more.

* * *

      It was late evening when 'Lord Doom’–as if Reed would ever use such a ridiculous title for someone he’d once seen asleep on his astrophysics textbook, honestly–called him into the throne room. Tapestries hung on an endless hall between stone columns, torches to light the way (castles in this region were cold enough and drafty enough that fire was always welcome as both a source of heat and light; the added drama was just a nice bonus, he supposed) and Victor himself resplendent on a seat just low enough that it didn’t overpower the majestic figure he presented.

      Knees wide apart, feet crossed at the ankles, hands resting poised in polished gauntlets; gleaming angles and sharp edges shrouded in the rich, forest green of his cloak and tunic. Gold clasps catching the light on either side of his heart and above all, a mask he didn’t need in the least, hiding everything human about him except for those dark, watchful eyes.

      The guards left without a word, as soon as his guest reached the entryway. No order given, not a single word uttered, they just seemed to know when it was time to march out and close the doors behind them.

      Once the room was cleared and there’d been time enough for Reed to close half the distance, brows raised and a skeptical smile in place–unsure what this was leading up to but confident that he could handle whatever Victor threw his way–

      “Either undress willingly, or I’ll tear that ridiculous suit from your body myself.”

      Reed blinked rapidly, unsure he’d heard the words quite right. Was he really… had Victor just… had Doom honestly _said **that**_ to _him_? Had he lost his mind?

      Calm, honey-brown eyes stared down from the throne, marking just _exactly_ how that 'ridiculous suit’ clung to every curve and muscle. Strictly utilitarian, of course–a reinforced, dark blue mesh that could move and flex as Reed’s body did. Durable and lightweight and in no way intended to draw the attention that it unmistakably did, particularly from his patron. That fucking suit haunted Victor’s dreams. If he could possibly have excused it, if the material wasn’t resistant enough to make the whole exercise ludicrous, tearing it to shreds would have honestly been more satisfying than any alternative–but the alternative would have to do.

      Reed, meanwhile, was beginning to make sense of things, belatedly.

      All the tension between them, his old friend’s (frenemy’s, he supposed) sudden fits of temper, the insults and baiting and those strange moments when Victor had stood much, much too close, drained all the oxygen from the room until he’d had to leave it for the sake of his own equilibrium. They’d had their… moment… early on, a brief flirtation that had never really gone anywhere, when they were younger men with less to lose, but that was far behind them now, surely?

      “Was the order unclear?” Doom’s voice echoed.

      Not as far behind them as he’d thought, apparently, and _that_ sent a warm thrill of unexpected excitement through him: he still held all the cards, here. His former classmate, the man he’d been at odds with for years, who’d made himself a king, who could do damned near anything he wanted to, if even half the rumors could be trusted as true, was still _thoroughly_ hung up on the crush he’d never fulfilled in college.

      On the one man he could never bring low enough to suit him; couldn’t quite get under his bootheel.

      Reed’s smile spread slowly, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. Strolling toward the throne, he tugged at the suit’s zipper just far enough to show a glimpse of collarbone before stopping.

      “Are you ordering me as a king, Victor, or are you _asking me_? It makes a difference, you see. More flies with honey and all that–if you asked nicely, maybe said 'please,’ I might be willing to give you what you wanted.”

      Resting his foot between Doom’s legs, leaning forward with both arms resting on one knee, Reed waited and watched as the king took off his gauntlets and mask, pushing the hood of his cloak back to stare at his 'pet scientist’ (it _should_ be true; _why_ was it not true?) with as little between them as possible.

      He’d never understood what the point of the mask was, really. The scar that twisted from forehead to jawline only added to his attractiveness, interrupting the perfection and giving further character to a face that was already handsome enough to draw plenty of attention on its own. It made him look slightly dangerous; more of a brooding anti-hero than a megalomaniacal despot. Rakish, as the romance novelists might have put it, with his high cheekbones and messy brown curls adding to the effect.

      Victor ran a hand through his hair and sat back, smiling thinly at Reed.

      “A command isn’t a request. Though if you’re refusing, that’s certainly allowed–the doors are not locked, you’ve never been a prisoner here. The only reason you _linger_ is because you _choose_ to. Which means that you want to see where this leads just as much as I do–though if your question is whether I personally want you to obey that order, yes, I very much _do._ ”

      Dropping his leg off the seat, Reed put his hands on the arms of the throne and leaned in, eye to eye with Doom; not quite staring him down, but not far from it, either.

      “Why do this now? You’ve had years, Victor. You never did more than hint. Then you pull this? Why tonight?”

      Victor waited, calm and quiet; letting Reed put himself where he wanted.

      “Why not?” He said quietly.

      Richards didn’t pull away. He had to know what he was doing at this point–being this close, inviting danger. Judging by the smirk he absolutely did, he just wasn’t going to make the first move.

      Maybe he thought he still had the upper hand, or maybe much like Victor, he just didn’t care which of them moved anymore as long as the unbearable stalemate was finally broken.

      There was only so much temptation any human being could bear, even Victor con Doom. He had exactly what he wanted, all he needed to do was act on it.

      It should be simple. He’d annexed countries without so much as a flicker in his baseline pulse. Why was _this_ the one thing that still made him feel anything at all?

      If he gave in to it, perhaps he could find some way of breaking whatever hold it had over him. That sounded… reasonable.

      It had only been a second (if that), but time enough for broad-fingered hands to catch on the front of Reed’s suit, gripping the collar where the zipper had parted it and yanking Reed forward as Victor lifted up to meet him, hands immediately releasing the fabric in favor of skin and muscle, fingers twisting through dark hair to hold him still. He half-considered not kissing him at all; just brushing his lips across that infuriating little smile and letting go again, but now that they were this close, now that he could feel the warmth of his breath and the flushed skin under his fingers, now that he could breathe in the scent of him and get a sense of how exactly their bodies might fit together, everything seemed to have its own momentum.

      Like magnetic fields interlocking, drawn together until the pieces clicked. Math could have described the inevitability of it; Victor lacked words, just at the moment.

      One of them made a low, throaty sound of approval, or maybe they both had, but his focus was exclusive to the smooth, wet texture of Reed’s lips and the quick, teasing movements of his tongue, evasive and bold and daring until Doom wanted nothing more than to hold him down and bite the damned thing to keep it still.

      His armor tried to re-calibrate for the sudden spike in body temperature; Victor smiled at the absurdity of the entire situation and pulled Reed closer, soft skin against hard metal, one hand sliding down his back and lower, wanting to grind against him even if he couldn’t feel the friction himself.

      Sensory input wasn’t the point.

      Correction: _tactile_ input wasn’t. Every other point of data was _vital_ , and his senses were flooded with sights and sounds and whatever it was in Reed’s pheromones that made his head swim every time he got too near. Adding touch would only have upset the balance, distracted him from realizing that 'Dr. Richards’ (honestly, he’d had business cards printed) was pressing against him slowly now, unconsciously rolling his hips as they kissed, broke away, kissed again. As the kisses travelled lower to his neck and collarbone, becoming soft bites and harder ones until Reed’s shaky exhales transforming into low moans.

      “We are _not_ doing this with the armor on, just to be clear. This. Whatever this is. Sex. I guess. This is sex, right? I’m not having sex with you while you have any part of your armor on.”

      His voice wasn’t as shaky as Victor would have liked, but there was still time for that. At least his grasp of sentence structure seemed… fractured. That was promising.

      “Interesting that you assume we’ll be having sex at all–at no point did I imply that.” Batting his lashes innocuously, Victor reached for the zipper that ran down the front of Reed’s suit and pulled slowly, undoing it as far down as it would go before leaning into him again.

      “My only order was for you to strip–which you failed to do–but I am in a forgiving mood, and if you’d like to _request_ my attentions…”

      Helping Reed out of his skin-tight suit was certainly easier than getting out of the Chthon-damned armor, but both were necessary for what he had in mind. Metal plates clattered to the stone floor as Victor worked on both projects simultaneously, leaving Reed to stand and consider while he kissed and bit and stroked every part of him he could reach, lingering on some more than others.

      “Victor…”

      “Hm?”

      “I’m not going to _ask_.”

      Without the armor, he was only an inch or so taller than Reed; still broader, more muscular, still physically stronger unless the other used his abilities, but not as physically intimidating without all the metal.

      Standing close enough, he could still use the modest difference, though–force Reed’s eyes up, rest one hand on his throat with a single calloused thumb stroking along the Adam’s apple, feeling it bob when he swallowed.

      “No, I don’t believe that you will. You’ll _beg_. With the right incentive. …I can be patient and persuasive, Richards. You should know that better than anyone, by now.”

      Guiding him back to the throne, Victor did two unbelievable things: the first was to let Reed sit there himself, nude as he was, and the second was to kneel between his legs, hands teasing up and over his thighs as he leaned above his lap.

      A quick pause to study Reed’s face, nothing but wicked amusement on his own, before he curled and licked, tracing a long stripe from tip to base, raking blunted nails along both inner thighs.

      The teasing was brief; he took in the full length in one go and held it, lashes low in an expression of perfect contentment for a few seconds before he started to move with purpose, long, slow strokes intermixed with hard, sharp ones, teeth nicking here and there on a particularly brutal pace and hands sliding underneath to both pull Reed forward and control the pace completely.

      Richards wasn’t sure he remembered, anymore, exactly what they’d been arguing about.

      “Victor, jesus christ…”

      His fingers twisted and dug into the king’s soft brown curls, urgently trying to find some hand-hold, some solid point, some anchor for clarity and reason–

      Victor chose exactly that moment to settle into a steady rhythm and _build,_ effortless and relentless, until all Reed could manage were ragged gasps and quick upward thrusts, still trying to merge the reality of all this with the person who was doing it. That _Doom_ was humbling himself (as he would surely see it) like this. That the same mouth that had called him every name that could possibly be imagined was currently sucking him off with the kind of skill most people never experienced in their lives. That he was sitting on his throne while he did it, and Victor was kneeling in front of… him?

      The first tremors started in his legs; he was already so far past light-headed he barely noticed the change there, just a skipped heartbeat and a second of breathtaking tension right before they reached the event horizon.

      Then everything stopped completely. Victor withdrew, holding his hips pinned in place no matter how much he squirmed, and Reed was speechless–first with disbelief, then disappointment, then anger.

      Doom watched him through all of it, eyes glittering under heavy lids. Enjoying the show and _waiting_ for his guard to drop. Waiting for just the right moment.

      “You bastard–”

      “One word, Richards. Just one small, magic word and possibly your pride–nothing else stands between you and the thing you want most.”

      He spoke in a low, steady murmur, crouched and leaning in until their lips were nearly touching, but dipped his head to lick spirals across the head of Reed’s cock rather than wait.

      “ _Fuck you_.” Through clenched teeth. It sounded too high-pitched; too desperate to stand as a refusal for very long.

      Victor took the tip in and lowered further, maddeningly slow and gentle, his tongue sweeping along the underside on the way back up.

      Patience was a virtue.

      “Damn it, Victor.”

      He lifted away completely, locking eyes with Reed. Waiting.

      “Please.”

      To his credit, Doom did not gloat.

      “ **Again.** ”

      “Please.” It came out as a gasp, and Reed hated everything about the way it sounded–hated that he’d said it at all–but everything he’d suspected about giving this man any degree of power vanished when he realized exactly where the power _was._

      Doom appeared to have just lost his legendary self-control. As if it were a spell Reed’s single word had freed him of, leaving only the man underneath; something that lived and breathed and ached and wanted just like every living thing does, alive and awake at last, pulling Reed to him and kissing him hard enough to leave them both feeling bruised. Victor couldn’t seem to rest until he’d caught the tip of Reed’s tongue between his teeth, letting it go just as quickly and sucking at the damage done, somehow slipping back into his seat and dragging Reed onto his lap without ever breaking contact for a second.

      He left _himself_ open, for the first time in the whole exchange, encouraging the little bites and kisses along his neck and shoulder, sighing as Reed’s nimble fingers curled around his cock.

      For a few seconds, Victor allowed himself the luxury of pure sensation. He’d forgotten how to do anything about these urges but deny them. He’d forgotten what it was like to be touched by anyone else, let alone _Reed._ The brilliant, frustrating, stubborn, arrogant, maddeningly attractive idiot he’d been shamefully obsessed with for almost two decades. And who at least knew enough about anatomy to leave Victor shakily mouthing words he couldn’t give voice to for a few seconds.

      “Enough.” A pause as he licked his lips and tried again. “That’s enough.”

      “You never told me you weren’t circumcised.”

      Victor blinked, staring at Reed as though he’d just said something in an alien language.

      “When would that have come up?”

      Pulling Reed properly onto his lap this time, straddling his hips so that they could grind against each other and gain _some_ amount of friction, everything else was down to what he’d planned already.

     And there was always a plan, of course–though this one had veered and twisted–from the discreet glass bottle of something slick hidden away just within reach to the exact position, leaving Reed’s hands free to grip the back of the throne while Victor’s did the rest.

     Much of Richards’ attention was focused on trying to push this egotistical, touch-deprived jackass over the edge too soon just out of spite, though that was half-hearted and he knew it.

     He wanted this. That was the problem. Deep down, he wanted it just as much as Victor did.

     And those dark eyes scanning his expression as the first finger teased in slowly, checking that everything was acceptable, that he was truly alright, almost made him feel guilty for hating Doom as much as he did. For wishing this were quicker, more careless, easier to dismiss. For wishing the second did curl so perfectly into that one little spot and make him groan under his breath or press back for more.

     Victor let his movements dictate the pace; let his soft moans provide encouragement and his sharp breaths mark a stopping point, but the second he did, a gasped phrase that could almost have been words.

     Could almost have been “Victor, please.”

     It certainly carried a note of urgency to it that the king was willing to answer, withdrawing his hand and positioning himself to let Reed descend at his own speed, trusting that everything was slick enough to make this painless. They were both too far gone for this to last, that was a given, but while it did… he was determined to make it _memorable._

     (And if it was worth repeating, so much the better.)

     Reed’s hands were occupied already; Victor gripped one hip to help guide him, pushing him down farther as he lifted into the end of each stroke, just to see what kind of exciting little noises he could wring from him. His other hand countered the rhythm just to be contrary. To see what the reaction was–and so far, results were… interesting, but he was barely holding on. They both were. It was much, much too good to last and every time either of them moved it only got more intense.

     Blame the limitations of the human body. Or letting the tension linger for too long. Whatever the cause, it was all happening too fast and there was nothing to do but accept that.

     “Are you close?” Doom’s voice was mockingly, deceptively calm, and all Reed could manage was a hoarse laugh.

     “Aren’t you?”

     Was the man even human?

     Victor eyed him evenly, holding his gaze without blinking. Near the pupils was a hint of red, though possibly that was a trick of the light.

      “Yes.” Practically a gasp before he could steady himself again, pull it together with considerable effort. “But you first. Come for me, Reed. For your _king_.”

      Tightening his grip, Victor quickened the strokes and finally matched his thrusts to them, watching as Reed struggled and lost, back straightening and long, low moans spilling out. He refused to let them turn into whimpers, no matter how intense it was; his arms and shoulders shook from the effort, but he wouldn’t give Doom the satisfaction of knowing just how unglued he was. Still, the little gasps between clenched teeth were suggestive as Victor hit that same perfect little spot inside him over and over again, fucking him steadily through his own orgasm before finally giving in himself.

      Reed was distracted from the mess he’d just made, from the ache in his legs and everywhere else, from the whole torrid, embarrassing thing by watching Doom absolutely shatter in front of him, eyes closed and lids fluttering, gasps halting in a sharp indrawn breath as he grasped for Reed’s hips, pulling him downward, head thrown back in a soundless cry, and the steady, hard pulse of the cock inside him sent a sympathetic pang through his own.

      For a few seconds, Doom was… astonishingly vulnerable. Accessible. Almost ordinary, if you forgot how dangerous he was.

      Then reality rolled back in and he was still exactly who he was.

      “You bastard,” Reed repeated tiredly, already regretting every decision that had led up to this.

      Victor smiled. So here they were again, back on familiar ground already. He wouldn’t have it any other way.


	2. what we both know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (second thoughts are had, angsting begins... and no one handles their emotions well At All)

      Victor had been so certain that it would _work;_ that he could finally get this dangerous obsession out of his system and Reed out of his thoughts entirely once the deed was done. Hilarious, how wrong he'd been.

      They'd ended the night with an argument. Nothing unexpected in that, really, though the king wasn't sure (still) what the cause had been. He'd only suggested that Reed might wish to stay, given the state they were both in... had it come across mockingly? Had he meant it that way? Had Reed taken it for an invitation to share _his own_ quarters? (Of course he'd never meant that. If he'd thought of any such thing he'd have made it a direct order just to _annoy_ the man.) ...Ultimately, Doom had swaddled himself in his discarded cloak and left, sending the nearest non-human servant to direct his _guest_ to private rooms as far from his own as possible. If Richards opted to leave in the middle of the night then so be it, if he wanted to do so a complete, shameful mess then that was no concern of Doom’s either, but he could at least provide the possibility of a shower and a bed...

      How had it all gone so wrong? No--a better question: Why had he expected it to go any other way than this? And what did it matter, anyway? He’d gotten what he wanted. That should be enough. All of these smaller details were... irrelevant.

      But as the sun rose and Victor's hand slid cautiously into the empty space beside him--knowing full well that it would be empty, cursing himself for ever imagining it would be otherwise--he knew that this wasn't over. No matter how badly he wanted it to be.

      Tossing back the covers and swinging his legs over the edge, the king sat and steadied himself in the early morning light, head in his hands and fingertips tracing the ragged scar tissue near the hairline.

      He still _**wanted**_. Still ached for... _something_ , and he didn’t know what, but it wasn’t conquest, clearly. What was it, then? What did he need so badly from this man? What was this thing gnawing away at him, and why couldn't he _kill_ it?

      Grabbing his pillow and pressing it to his face, Victor screamed into the softness in frustration, flashes of memory from the night before filling his head until he paused for air, lifted, and carefully smoothed out the creases again.

      Perhaps it would pass, if he gave it time. If he handled it calmly, pretended it didn't exist. Surely it would pass.

* * *

      Reed wasn’t entirely sure how he’d made it home at all. For a second, he’d thought… hoped, even (not that he’d have said yes, but it would have been nice to be asked, Victor was a thoughtless _ass_ so of course that never occurred to him) …anyway, at least there’d been a shower.

      He didn’t particularly want to stick around for breakfast the next morning. Just imagining the awkwardness of that made his skin crawl. No--better if he cleaned up and then cleared off, let Doom make of that what he would.

      Let him understand that it had meant absolutely _nothing_ to the esteemed Doctor Richards.

      Really, it hadn’t. And clearly all it meant to Victor was… another point in an endless game that no one else was playing. He’d gotten to Reed by showing vulnerability, or at least seeming to--but was any of it genuine? With him, was anything _ever_?

      His head ached. The layers of deception were too hard to unravel--why couldn’t he just say what he meant? Or maybe he had, and Reed just didn’t like the answer.

      Whatever. It was a one-off and a deeply regrettable mistake; one he’d never repeat. If possible, he’d renew the focus on his work and if not possible, if Victor chose to press the issue, he had enough investments and patents of his own by now to break his ties with Latveria completely. Dissolve their partnership, if he must. The American government would probably welcome him with open arms… _if_ he was willing to share some of his secrets with them.

      Odd that Doom had never demanded such a thing, really. Oh, he certainly wanted his name on the projects, wanted the Latverian flag emblazoned on any visible work, wanted the world to know who provided his funding, but…

      He didn’t _intrude_ , and that was odd for a man who otherwise had no clear sense of what the word 'boundaries' meant.

      As if he… _trusted_ Reed.

      And in return, Reed had found himself bringing Victor ideas he knew would please him. Not weapons--never, ever those--but there were so many other ways to improve the life of Latveria’s citizenry; the clean energy projects they’d worked on together, the sky-lanes and up-building works that had nearly doubled the population within a few short years, with no pollution or overcrowding, the agricultural developments… and Reed was the primary patent-holder on the inventions he chose to claim. He was precisely as wealthy as he wanted to be.

      He simply hadn’t chosen _very much_ , was all. And for that matter, neither had Doom; the ridiculous castle aside, Victor’s spending went right back into Latveria again. He pushed exports and their tech was utilized in other countries in a limited form, made sure that his citizens had free health care, access to a full education, freedom from any tax burden... To live in Latveria was to live in Utopia; the only price was absolute loyalty to their king. Always.

      Reed knew the penalty for every crime was the same--death, until he had come here. After months and months of passionate argument, Victor had settled for exile instead, but that was the same as death for most of these people and he knew it. He could tell himself it was a more merciful option, but he'd seen too many of them leave in chains and return in boxes. Still, _some_ chance of survival was better than zero, and Victor could be reasoned with. Given time. Given opportunity.

      But how much sway could he possibly have? How much did anyone _expect_ him to have?

      Reed felt lost. Standing in his private lab, still in his robe and pajamas, determined to focus on work and _not_ think about Victor, he found it hard to think of anything else. His troubled, cautious brown eyes hardening on that first day, when he wouldn’t even shake Reed's hand. The gleam of insanity in those same eyes later, visible only through metal slots. The coaxing and careful work required to finally see what was behind the mask; to re-earn his trust; to see him _smile_ , and how worth it that had been, like witnessing an impossible conjunction that only happened once every thousand years or so.

      No one was too broken to be saved. He’d always believed that. But he always felt so terribly out of his depth with Victor--the way he’d taken all his broken, jagged edges and turned them outward, used them to keep any gentle, healing touch at bay. Reed couldn't understand the effort. Why would anyone _choose_ to be unhappy?

      (There were times when all he wanted was to pry the goddamned armor off and shake him. And... possibly hold him, and remind him of who he was, because there were times when he wasn't sure the king _himself_ knew. When **Doom** was present and Victor was out and there was just no calling him back. Reed hated those days.)

      Coffee spilled over the side of his cup and Reed winced, careful not to spill it on anything important. Notes… well, nothing too obscured, and something on his screen was blinking, now.

      A message from Victor, requesting confirmation of a meeting. To discuss irrigation plans for a new grain crop "Dr Richards" had been tinkering with; something they were both eager to implement while the season allowed for it, and something that Doom had said could be underway by the end of the week.

      “A man of his word,” Reed mouthed sarcastically against the steam in his mug, reading the outline swiftly.

      Purely a business proposal. No mention of anything more, but the meeting was set for tomorrow, just after dinner. ... _After_ , not during. Nothing that might be construed as _intimate._

      Reed sat back in his chair, considering. He knew the syntax very well; the attention to detail and scrupulous absence of any 'frivolous' detail. Victor had written this himself, and sent it just now. The _timing_ was strange, but the content? That told him nothing at all. Maybe it was meant as an apology. More likely, he just wanted everything to go back to normal too. To put it all behind them. There was wisdom in that of course--hadn’t Reed just reached the very same conclusion?

      So why did he feel… deflated, disappointed? _Stung_ , as if this were a rejection? It made no sense. Why did he halfway want to go tearing into that castle, rip that stupid mask off, and kiss him as hard as he could?

      Where the hell had _that_ thought come from? No. This was the wiser course of action. Wasn’t that what he always relied on Victor for? Handling things like this so that he could focus on his work?

* * *

      Victor had nearly convinced himself that he wasn’t nervous at all. That this was, in fact, just business--exactly what they’d agreed to discuss. A continuation of their work together. Nothing more. And he wasn’t looking forward to seeing that face again or concerned in the least that he might not turn up. Reed _had_ confirmed, just as requested. There’d never been a single day when the man wasn’t prompt, whatever faults he may have. He had always been... obedient, after his own fashion.

      Doom had summoned him. His king, whether he acknowledged that or not. What choice did he have?

      (He'd snapped a gold-barreled fountain pen in half without realizing it, ink spilling in a black pool across the desk and his hand. Victor stared forlornly at the mess in his hand, knowing there was no time to clean it, then cast a hurried spell to reverse the damage. It would only hold for 24 hours, but that was long enough. As for why it had happened... his attention had wandered, that was all. The gauntlets required constant awareness. When you can't feel what you're touching, _not_ breaking a thing is harder than breaking it ever was. Certainly it wasn't the meeting that distracted him...)

      Reed was ushered in by the attendant, leatherbound notebook under one arm, dressed in a perfectly normal suit--and his patron felt a rush of too many things at once: the giddy delight of finally seeing him again, the shame of realizing _why_ he was dressed so formally, regret over what kind of distance between them that might represent, and above all, the breathtaking need to _touch;_ to brush the hints of grey at one temple, to take the notebook out of his hand and kiss the knuckles.

      If Reed felt anything similar, he showed no sign of it--just opened his book and settled in, as focused as always.

      This had been a mistake. There was no backing out of it now, but every second was going to be dreadful and Doom could blame no one but himself. How was Richards so _cool_ about all of this? So _unfazed_ by it? As though nothing had happened, while Victor suffered silently through the first steps of their meeting, as calmly as he could manage, determined to maintain the same pretense just as well.

      At least he had the mask. That was something, at least.

* * *

      It was just business, that was all. Doom’s scowling mask offered nothing from the moment he’d walked in, and Reed kept his expression equally impassive. What had he expected? …Exactly this. And granted, wearing a proper suit was maybe twisting the knife just a little, but he couldn’t bring himself to wear what he’d worn last time.

      Not knowing… remembering… the feel of Victor’s hands removing it.

      And now he was blushing, pencil halting abruptly in mid-sketch until the images faded. Hopefully faded. They _would_ fade, if he gave it a second...

      “Is there a problem?”

      Victor was standing too close. He had to know that. Close enough that their bodies were almost touching; that the folds of his cloak were wrapped around them both. Reed could nearly imagine the heat of actual human skin through the metal overlay, even knowing that was an illusion and the blush got worse; he couldn’t breathe.

      “No.” It sounded like a gasp for air.

      Doom inhaled slowly; a low, surprisingly unsteady sound, and then a hand came to rest on the back of Reed’s neck; still in its gauntlet, but light enough and warm enough to be pleasant.

      The fingers stroked gently along the nape, soothing him, and then slid to his shoulder before letting go again.

      “I'm sorry. I... did _try_ not to touch you. I’ve been trying for _years_ not to touch you. I thought if I just... gave in completely, just once, the impulse would finally pass, but instead it’s stronger than ever.” Victor spoke quickly, as if he knew he might stop himself if he didn't get the words out fast enough.

      Reed turned on him tiredly, closing his notebook and pushing back his chair, one arm thrown over the back. The absolute cowardice of the man... how could anyone be so goddamn afraid of... human _feeling_? Now that he studied him closely enough, he could see details overlooked before; the armor hid so much of his body, but he knew Victor well enough by now to extract some information anyway. Enough to know that he was tense and in pain and barely holding onto any semblance of calm.

_And he was no less afraid, himself._

      “I’ll finish up here,” the scientist said gently, turning away to offer him privacy. “It’s late, you have a lot on your mind.”

      There was a sharp hiss of breath behind him and for once, Reed was grateful that he couldn't see Victor's face as he left the room.

* * *

      The notes were waiting on his desk the next morning; Victor flicked through them with no enthusiasm whatsoever until one tri-folded sheet fell out, hand-written in neat letters:

**“You’re in love with me,”** it read. **“And we both know it.”**

      For a few seconds, the king couldn’t draw enough air to breathe. His hand wouldn't obey the simple instruction to destroy that folded sheet; to crumple it, to burn it--a basic spell, one of the simplest in his repertoire--but all he could do was stare at the damned thing as though he'd lost all capacity for movement. (Reed was mocking him. _He was mocking him!_ ) But Victor couldn’t crush a simple sheet of paper, knowing who’d written the words on it.

      He’d lock it away somewhere. Later, he’d burn it. Once his head had cleared.

* * *

      It was an educated guess. A gamble, really. And Reed was scared to death of the outcome of that little folded note, tucked away in his report.

      What had _possessed_ him? And why not word it some other way? Pride? Was he so afraid of seeming foolish that he had to expose Victor, keep his own feelings hidden, risk coming across as callous instead?

      Fidgeting with a pencil and trying to pretend he wasn’t, Reed stared at the book in front of him without seeing a single word. The king would contact him, of course. Demand clarification, send for him… he’d probably be angry, but it would give him a chance to explain. To sort all of this out. They both just... needed a little more time, that was all.


	3. broken, but only slightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (chapter includes frottage and armor porn, because someone mentioned armor porn. ...i really wanted to spend more time on this one and may redo it later. ALSO. got a bit more into the background on both these two: Yes, the royal family of Latveria is Rroma. because i'm writing this version and i say so. also, Reed's father left when he was slightly younger than in canon, so his attitude toward that is different and his coping methods are different as well.)

      “You’re in love with me, Victor.” Reed’s hands cupped his cheeks, trying to turn his head, make their eyes meet. The king wouldn’t allow it; grabbing both wrists and pulling them down.

      “Why can’t you just admit it?”

      “Why can’t you _stop talking_?.” Hardly his best comeback, but this was the last thing Victor wanted to discuss just now. Not when he finally had Reed here, in his own bed, and the chance to explore every flawless curve and angle of his body, test just a little of how far those lithe muscle could stretch… the list was long and there was a terrible sense of dwindling time. He didn’t want to waste any of it.

      “But you _do_ love me, _don’t_ you?” Reed was breathless, arms pinned behind him as Doom held him up, nipping a line of red marks along his shoulder. Victor tightened his hold and bit down harder, rewarded by a soft whine and the feel of Reed quickly hardening against his hip.

      “You’re mine, and _that_ is the only thing that matters here.” Nails scraping lightly over the underside of Reed's cock, Victor nuzzled his throat contentedly.

      “You’ll never be… my king.” But he was panting now, squirming for more contact, struggling to angle himself against Victor’s body and gain some small amount of friction that way. Doom’s hand glanced across the tip and underside again, nails raking his chest.

      “Demonstrably, I am. Dual citizenship. You are at least _half_ mine already...” he teased.

      Reed chuckled breathlessly. “You've never settled for _half_ of anything in your life... and we both know it.”

 _And we both know it._ The words echoed in Victor's head as their hips met, each gaining the friction they needed, both perilously close to the edge already. _We both know it._

      “Yes. I _do_ love you,” he whispered. It was hard to hear his own voice over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

      He felt Reed smile against his neck.

      “And I--”  
  
 **_*blertblertblertblertblertblertblertblertblertblert*_**

 

      Victor clutched at the sheets and snarled in frustration at the interruption of the alarm. A dream. _Just_ a dream. An embarrassingly realistic one that had nearly ended in a shameful mess (the denial ached, but he could bear that; if only just) and now… reality.

      A reality in which Reed was not here, not his, and never would be. In which that note still mocked him, and the memory of his own subconscious admission made him want to groan and cover his face.

      Reed would never come to him of his own accord, that much was obvious. Even in his _dreams_ he knew it–he’d never accept Victor as his sovereign. Not fully. Not entirely. Not in the way that Victor wanted him to. (And what did it mean, really? Only that Reed was _his_. The thing he wanted most of all; not to rule over him or command him–though yes, that was a pleasant thought–but simply to hear the words from Reed’s own lips: _'I am yours.'_ )

      The king was growing to hate the dawn.

* * *

      Reed couldn’t remember when he’d last slept properly. Waiting for the summons that never came, he’d turned to his work but… kept imagining Victor’s input, which of course only brought him back to the issue at hand.

      Still, he hadn’t done the _wrong_ thing; that much, he was certain of. More accurate to say that he’d done the right one _too early_.

      A fact that brought no consolation at all as he found himself idling again near the computer, glancing too often at the screen for that understated piece of communication as he sketched out other plans.

      "Damn it, Victor. You’re going to make me come to you, aren’t you?”

** ** ** ** ** **

      Taking his time preparing–one did not approach the king looking anything less than one’s best, and honestly, Dr Richards bordered on unkempt at the moment–Reed paused to consider what he’d say once he got to the castle.

      They’d never interacted without some excuse behind it, some reason… if he went there now, his intentions would be obvious, but he had nothing to present. None of the attempted projects had gone anywhere at all. There was simply… nothing.

      He’d have to brave it anyway. He’d approach Victor like any ordinary person, like an old friend from college, and just… see how he was doing. He’d… decide what to do when he got there. It didn’t matter, he just needed to _see_ him.

      The hovercycle was his first invention–technically. The first he’d completed, at least. In the days when he’d had no one, before he’d even met Ben, his oldest friend by far. After his father had vanished, when Reed had thought… well, maybe vanishing wasn’t such a bad idea, sometimes. Maybe there was something to be said for that, in fact.

      He’d been five when Nathaniel Richards left his life without explanation. Something in him had hardened against the idea of fatherhood, forever after; soured on the notion and grown cold to it. Reed’s immediate response to anyone getting too close was ironically to do the same as his father had done to him: he fled. And the hovercycle had been his first escape route.

      The first time Victor had seen it, just before being called home to take over leadership from his own dying father, he’d openly admired the design. Simple though it was, he could see the potential–as Victor could _always_ see the potential–and suggested small improvements on the spot.

      That had been the start of it all, really; from there to Reed’s assistance in rebuilding Latveria, helping the young prince bring his country into the 21st century.

      And never in all that time had Reed felt any desire to flee. Now that he had the chance, now that the ‘cycle was out and ready to go, he was moving _toward_ someone, rather than away.

** ** ** ** ** **

      The castle was strangely quiet, human servants absent and most of the robotic ones too, except for a handful of military guards along the outer doors. Reed marched past with his head proudly raised; Victor’s tin soldiers were designed to look intimidating–of course they were–and Richards took a very specific delight in never even flinching at the damned things.

      The king was in his library, books scattered open across a vast wooden desk as he bent across them, referencing and cross-referencing to make notes in a small black ledger to one side.

      “I did not summon you,” he noted. “Though I would have done so, and sooner, rather than later. There’s something we must discuss.”

      If Reed’s entrance startled him, he gave no sign, but then again… the guards had let him pass. Had he changed the security format? Less 'bots, but with a direct feed to his mask’s input?

      Why was that thought a worrying one? Like seeing a drawbridge raised.

      Victor put the pen down and closed his book, facing Reed calmly–the desk between them.

      “That’s exactly why I’m here. I wasn’t sure if you’d be ready to or not, but I thought… well, you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. And I’m ready to discuss this, Victor. I think it’s well overdue.”

      Light glinted off the mask as it tilted slowly, pale brown eyes blinking as Reed went on.

      “I’m sending you back to America, Dr. Richards.” Doom’s echoing tones cut through every hopeful note in left hanging in the rushed soliloquy Reed had just managed to get halfway out. “Until such time as Latveria requires your services again.”

      Hands behind his back at parade rest, expression unreadable on any level, Victor (call it straight, this man was _Doom_ ; though his friend might still be reachable, maybe) glowered down on Reed from the armor’s added height without a single flicker of emotion.

      Reed, on the other hand, went through an entire range: gut-punch surprise, confusion, hurt, anger, and ultimately defiance. That was the one he wrapped his arms around and held fast to. That, and the sudden urge to _laugh_.

      “Did I really wound you _this_ deeply, Victor? That you have to put on this whole show–” Waving a hand more at the outward demeanor than the apparel, since he never took the goddamned armor off anyway, Reed shook his head. “–You _hide_ in this thing, can’t you see that? In being Doom. Just like you hide in the armor. It’s how you protect yourself when you feel threatened, just like I run away–”

      He’d never seen the change that came over his “old friend” before, though he knew others had. Reed was a smart man–one of the smartest on the planet–he knew why people feared Doom, but he himself had rarely faced him. He’d learned to view that as… the creation of a broken mind who needed someplace stronger to live when things got too much for him. A place to put all his hatred and rage and… yet. Still ultimately... _Victor_.

      Still Victor, but without all the irritating little human frailties like conscience and empathy to weigh him down, and just now, THAT was staring down at Reed with a hint of red around the irises, rounding the desk too fast for something in 200 lbs of titanium-alloy and complex circuitry and hydraulics, cape sweeping behind him as one metal hand closed around Reed's throat and effortlessly lifted.

      The doctor panicked. And in the back of his mind, knew that the simplest way out was to use his powers and just slip free of the king’s grasp, but… Instinctively knew that if he escaped, if he slithered away from this fight, he’d never see those red eyes faded back to their gentle, soft brown again. Never see _Victor_ again.

      And for some reason, that troubled him.

      “Learn your **place** , Richards. I am your **king** , and will be **treated** as such. Your work, your livelihood, your very **LIFE** , continue at **my _whim_**. Do not. Presume. To know. **Me**.”

      Victor eased his hold–at least enough that Reed’s feet rested on the floor–but kept his hand where it was and moved in closer.

      “I’m sorry.” Reed whispered, hands grasping at green cloth to pull himself steady before he could do anything else. As apologies went, it wasn’t so much inauthentic as unrelated to the subject actually at hand, but whether Doom knew that or not, the scientist could only guess. And standing there, with all that metal pressed against his body and Victor’s behind it, all his thoughts were in places they really shouldn’t be.

      It took some stretching to be able to kiss the mask, roughly where he estimated the king’s mouth should be; the hand on his throat tightened in warning and Victor made a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a purr, tucking one leg between both of Reed’s own.

 _'You’re still in there somewhere,’_ he thought. Hating himself for the way his own hips moved against the smooth surface but loving the friction anyway, burying his face in Doom’s tunic and gasping for air that was only allowed in quick, sharp doses.

      Victor held him steady with one arm around his back, encouraging this, and knowing _that_ was too much by far. Reed made a stifled, inarticulate noise as he came, Doom forcing his head back to watch the expressions, his eyes half-lidded and dark.

      What was it Reed had said about not having sex while Doom still had the armor on? His head was spinning.

      Victor finally let go, finally let him breathe, and disentangled himself gingerly, making sure that Reed was capable of standing on his own. He could allow him that small dignity, at least.

      “Your plane leaves tonight. I’ll forward the details,” the king said simply, gathering his black book and walking out. Richards swayed in place and tried to catch his breath, rubbing his face and neck, unsure what had just happened or what any of it meant but knowing that if he stayed... well. Staying was no longer an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter, Sue, Johnny, and Ben will put in an appearance annnnnnd both sides will begin their plans.


	4. roads not chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (setting the stage for Reed's return to Latveria and getting into the backstory between these two a bit more, also introducing the rest of the Four in this verse. a small peek at Victor's influence on our favorite bendy science guy as well...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “So why did you choose to lean on  
> A man you knew was falling?”
> 
> —The Enemy, Mumford & Sons

       Jet lag was only part of the reason Reed felt dazed and out of place as he stepped into the Baxter Building, suitcase in hand. It was, of course, his home–Latveria was only his secondary address. He’d found himself in need of that reminder too often, lately. How long had he been away this time? Two months? Four?  **Six**. Half a year. No wonder he felt like a stranger. And the pollution in this city was unbearable, how did people stand it?

       “God, I sound just like him,” he muttered, dropping the case and rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes.

       “Talkin’ to yourself, Stretch?”

       Suddenly, Reed didn’t feel tired at all. He certainly didn’t feel out of place.

       “Ben! Get over here, it’s been too long--six months this time, can you believe that? Why didn’t you call?”

       Sandy blond hair and a face that couldn’t possibly be described without using the word “rugged,” it was a source of perpetual amazement that Ben Grimm was still unmarried. If he dated, he was a perfect gentleman about it; never the sort to kiss and tell. Reed wrapped his arms around that broad frame twice and squeezed like an eager python, knowing full well that Grimm could handle the pressure.

       “ _Nrggh,_ ” his friend managed eloquently in response. Apologetically letting go, Reed hung onto Ben’s shoulders and grinned sheepishly, letting him talk. “...As I was saying… No point in calling, you always come back. You’re like a homing pigeon. Though at this point, it’s getting more like the Swallows of Capistrano.” There was no real accusation in those too-blue eyes, only a hint of concern, deepening as they flicked to the suitcase. Since when did Reed pack light? Like he’d been shoved out the door?

       “…Boyfriend kick you out?” He’d said it lightly. He’d meant it as a joke. But the look on Reed’s face, the way his skin flushed bright red, made him wish he could take it back immediately. “…I could maybe have phrased that better--I'm sorry."

       Reed let his hands drop, feeling suddenly heavy; defeated.

       “It’s not that. It’s just… complicated, Ben.”

       “Yeah.” It sounded more like a grunt of annoyance than a full word; Ben had never liked Victor, never trusted him. He liked him even less if he was in any way responsible for his best friend coming home looking like he didn’t know which way was up anymore. “Victor’s got a long history of complicating things.”

       It wasn’t jealousy, Ben was pretty sure of that. Well, maybe a little–the two of them understood things he didn’t, they were focused on the wide view. His focus had always been narrower but finer, more fixed on the results at ground level than on loftier goals–not that he lacked those either, but his methods were different. He’d studied mechanical engineering and electronics, he could drive or fly anything Reed put in front of him, he could build, tweak, tune, or patch-fix whatever was necessary whenever it was needed. Like Reed, he dreamed of the stars–but he was in no rush to get there. Not after seeing what had happened to his friend, certainly.

       “I can’t really argue with that,” Reed said, rubbing his neck absently. His skin didn’t really bruise anymore but memories lingered. He’d rather they didn’t.

       Ben frowned, forehead puckering with suspicion. There was a lot the man wasn’t saying, and honestly… Grimm wasn’t sure he wanted to know the details. It was hard enough not breaking several international laws just to punch the guy who regularly enabled Reed's hardcore science addiction. If they were officially more than that and it was adding heartbreak to the mix…

       True, he’d always been too protective of Reed, and maybe it wasn’t necessary anymore; he wasn’t the same skinny kid under threat by bullies, anymore. He could handle himself, Ben had seen that often enough. It was just a hard habit to shake off.

       “Come on, you need something home-cooked and cheese-smothered in you. Vic’s been letting you waste away again.” Patting Reed’s back, Ben practically pushed him out the door, tucking the suitcase out of the way as he did. Let the guy have a day back, let him settle in and get his bearings before he had to deal with all of that. This night, at least, would be a Victor-free one. That subject was off the table; he’d make sure of it.

* * *

       Doom stared out the window, lost in thought. Late night in Latveria would be dawn in America; the sun would be rising where Reed was now. And here he was, distracted from the (second) most vital work he’d ever undertaken, the one that must not fail, the one that would not, because there was no beguiling Dr Richards to split his attention… but _still_ his attention wandered.

       In the long days after his father’s death, once they’d finally made headway on the restructuring of his homeland, lain the foundations of a new future for his people–Rroma and non-Rroma alike--Victor had returned to the same obsession that his father originally sent him away to disrupt: reaching into the afterlife and freeing his mother’s spirit from the demon who’d claimed it.

       And to do so meant taking Reed into his confidence. Trusting him with the deepest, most vital secret in his young life. Letting him see where his weakness was, and relying on him to never exploit it.

       They had shared so much already, but he struggled with the decision all the same. Allowing Reed to work on parts and pieces without revealing his plan, without telling him what it was for. That was the start of the rift between them, he knew–that mistrust. When Richards suggested an error in his calculations, Victor saw only snobbery. He’d never completed his education formally, there’d been no time. And now Richards felt some sort of childish jealousy over being _left out._ At having some area of science in Latveria that he had no part in, no chance to leave _his_ signature on.

       Still, he’d trusted the man’s brilliance enough to double-check, catching the error in time, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit what the machine was for. Not then. Not until after. It was Reed who had found him, after he'd crawled out of the machine--the first living face he saw, the first living hands that touched his wounds. Victor could still recall his panicked voice summoning help. Could still remember waking in the night to find him asleep next to his bed--so close he could have brushed his cheek with a fingertip, if he'd dared.

       But once the young king realized how deep his failure ran, that his mother was still lost to him _(for now)_ and the demon had marked more than just his skin, he’d pushed Reed away, too.

       A year passed. Victor spent the time wisely; learning to defend himself, building the armor and mask to seal himself off from Mephisto’s influence while Reed worked on his own base in the States. The two had a sporadic correspondence at first--one-sided, until Richards baited him into a chess game. Even then, it was obvious what the man was doing. Drawing the wounded leader out of his shell, out from the walls he'd built.

       Eventually, inevitability, he’d been allowed to return to Latveria. Had asked to see the wounds, and traced them with his fingertips. Victor had allowed it; had answered his questions even as Reed stared at him with the obvious concern of someone who doubts another person's sanity. Ultimately, the only thing he could do was to press those delicate fingers against his skin just at the point where the claws had dug deepest; a sharp crease along his right cheek. He'd held them to the incised skin, letting memory magic do the rest. _Showing_  Reed what he’d seen and felt, if only for the half-second it took for him to jerk his hand away again.

       “That can’t be real,” Reed had said. Doom waited for his mind to process. He was smart enough that it would be quick, no matter how great the cognitive dissonance. “Victor… your mother…”

       “My mother made her choice. Latveria is small, and surrounded by enemies. There was an illness in my generation that took most of our children–we could not produce an army large enough to defend her borders within my lifetime. She feared for our security. She sought an alliance with dark forces, and they betrayed her. Or perhaps they answered her wish, and that answer was… unexpected.”

       Already, his name had begun to spread. He’d left that machine with more than just the mark on his face; he’d left it with an _idea_. An identity, an image, and a simple, dazzling vision: row upon row of mechanized warriors, united beneath his banner. No Latverian citizen need ever die in battle again. Not one drop of their blood would ever be wasted on the field of battle.

       His mother’s dream would be realized after all. He understood it, even if Reed did not.

       Returning to the present, Victor’s fingers drifted to the mask. The thing that protected him, that closed him off from the world, yes, but also… _(the thing that helped him become who he was meant to be, and helped shut out the nightmares; the memories of everything human he preferred to let go of)_

       The sun had risen over Reed’s world, by now. His day had started. Victor’s was long since ended.

       Only one small point of business remained: a tri-folded note in his hand that ignited with a few whispered syllables and turned to ash.

* * *

       Reed awoke to the sound of voices and the smell of coffee. Both things were equally jarring, at first; his quarters in Latveria were isolated, coffee made only after he was up and mobile (his schedule had been too irregular for too many years to rely on any other system) and the voices were… American.

       (Ben’s voice, first. He knew that one, the kindness under the harsh Bronx accent that was always, he’d felt, just a little bit exaggerated–as if he wanted to sound a certain way, wanted to represent his city and neighborhood and culture so specifically that no one would ever think to look past the tough-guy act, to imagine that he had a heart and a brain… why did that remind him of Victor, somehow?)

       The second voice was younger, at ease, confident to the point of cockiness (this, too, was an affectation–god, was he just seeing deception everywhere now because he’d spent too much time around someone who viewed the whole world that way, or did everyone truly wear a mask of some kind? What was _his_  mask like to others?) and clearly teasing Ben about something.

       Then, even more strange to his ears, a third voice. And that one held so many secrets that it appeared to hold no secrets at all. A woman’s voice, self-assured and mock-exasperated; friendly but with a note of warning. Similar in tone to the first. Siblings, perhaps.

       Reed made himself presentable and went down to see what was going on.

       The domestic scene that met him was wholly unexpected; for a few seconds, his instinct was oddly divided, torn between a curious sense of longing and _rightness_  and a cold, hollow ache in the center of his being, like looking at a photograph from which his own image had been cut away. There was a space for him here, he sensed. One into which some version of him fit–some part of him belonged.

       And simultaneously, the urgent need to run from this place, these people, the fetters of normality they represented, as quickly as he possibly could. He’d never felt such a visceral fear in his life. Through Victor, he’d glimpsed a small section of Hell itself and hadn’t been anywhere near this frightened.

                        _(The people you love, the people you rely on, the people you bind yourself to, they always leave. All of them.)_

       All but one. One, who did send him away, yes, but summoned him back again every time. Victor was the most reliable person Reed had ever met. He was a pompous jackass with a god complex, true, but one who needed him and would never stop needing him. These people? They were a unit unto themselves.

       The illusion of a fourth available space, of a vacuum waiting to be filled, vanished along with his illogical fear.

 

       “Sorry if I’m interrupting, I couldn’t resist the coffee.”

       Three heads turned, but Reed only noticed one face. Radiant, deceptively soft, and welcoming. Blue eyes lit by curiosity. Blonde hair in a short bob, styled simply–he had no idea what was considered stylish anymore, but she looked perfect to him, even in a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled back and oh god, the silence had become awkward. Had someone spoken? Someone had asked him something, he was sure of it. Breaking his gaze away required effort.

       “Again–I apologize. The jet lag, the time difference, and... honestly just the culture shock...” Ben had shoved a mug into his hands and he sipped it gratefully. “…I’m not used to working with other people, or even being around them. The lab in Latveria is secluded, our staff is largely automated; partially my work and partially Victor’s. My social skills are... lacking.”

       Ben eyed him, one brow raised.

       “They weren’t that great _before_  you put yourself in solitary confinement, bucko. As I was saying… this is our primary candidate for the program, Sue Storm.”

       Reed carefully let his eyes return to the woman again, registering the pull (not sexual; more than that; something else, something more) and setting it aside to study later. He smiled warmly but didn’t reach out to shake her hand.

       Old habits died hard.

       “ _Doctor_ Storm?” Her smile brightened in response.

       “Correct. Though the ad was open to students as well, so if that’s a guess based on age…”

       Reed blushed, and felt suddenly out of his proper place again.

       “No! No, you… just have… it was only a guess.” He didn’t know how he knew; he couldn’t articulate it, at least not to her. Not in a way that wouldn’t make him sound as much of an intellectual elitist as Victor generally did, but he knew she had credentials, and he knew all her paperwork would be in order. He felt as if he knew more about her than he _ought_ , in fact.

       “And ah… this gentleman?” The younger one, wearing a polo shirt and slacks and making it somehow look like a fashion statement, was clearly related to Sue. And absorbed equally in something on his phone and a lengthy document in his hand; mostly, it seemed to involve engine schematics.

       “My brother, Johnny. Say hello, Johnny.”

       The young man--maybe nineteen by the look of him--never missed a beat.

       “Hello, Johnny.”

       There was a thumping sound beneath the table and he yelped, eyes darting in accusation to his sister. Sue continued to smile pleasantly.

       “That’s what I wanted to see you about, Dr. Richards. I know the program specs say you only have one slot to fill, but I was hoping there might be a spot for my brother, too.”

       Staring at the two of them, eyeing Ben, and barely tasting his coffee, the scientist considered.

       “Please, call me Reed. And… What are his qualifications?”

       Johnny raised his hand as if he were in a classroom, slowly putting his phone down and looking Reed in the eye.

       “Johnny–” his sister began.

       “I’m not twelve, Sue. Can I answer for myself?”

       Reed nodded, listening intently. Ben folded his arms, lips pressed together; his decision had clearly already been made, but he was keeping it to himself for now.

       “Mechanical engineering; self-taught. You build it, I can improve it. I can take any engine on earth and boost the speed and efficiency from potato to torpedo in two days’ time. I can do the same with most older computers, too–haven’t had a chance to learn the newer ones, but give me twenty-four hours to learn it and I probably can. In short, Dr Richards, I make things that stop going start going again and make things that already go, go much faster. And once they’re going, I can drive them. Anything with wheels or wings.”

       Reed bit his lower lip. Suddenly, several things made sense. This was roughly what Ben did, though Ben had more experience in the field… of _course_ there would be friction.

“I see,” he said, rubbing his chin and staring across at Grimm, who only looked increasingly annoyed.

       “–Like I was saying with your earlier ‘plans,’ kid, going faster isn’t always the best approach. It’s not even the best way to get from point A to point B unless point B is the burn unit.”

       Sue gathered up her papers quietly.

       “My brother and I are a team. Perhaps I should have made that clearer during my initial interview–”

       Reed set his coffee cup down and drew a deep breath; not as deep as he _could_  have, but enough to gain volume above the general din.

       “Would everyone please be _quiet_. Doctor Storm–forgive me, _Sue_ –we’d be delighted to have you **and**  your brother on our team. Ben, you and Mr Storm can work out your differences, I’m sure. Try cooperating instead of competing. If things go the wrong way–and I desperately hope that they don’t–we might be _glad_ of two skilled engineers on the team, yes?”

       He knew who he sounded like; his chest ached at the realization of how badly he missed the sound of that particular voice, that sense of authority and certainty bringing order to the world, but in its absence…

       There was only himself, and a team of three people, looking in a mixture of uncertainty and acceptance. The hardline approach was... not what they expected of him, in all likelihood. But there it was anyway. He didn't have time for bickering. He didn't have time for delicate egos.

       The moment passed, and Reed relaxed, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all and finally, shaking hands and properly greeting his guests.

       “Since everyone’s here, have you had breakfast yet?” He asked politely, putting as much charm into it all as he could summon.

 

       Not a lot of time, no... but enough, for now, to enjoy a few normal things. If their security clearances could be arranged, their training would begin. After that, things would become hectic–he could still manage this charade, though, until then. For as long as he needed to.

Staring over his shoulder at them, Reed wondered vaguely if they’d ever forgive him for what he was going to do to their lives in the name of protecting his own world from the man he loved. Somehow, he doubted it–but that was a decision he’d already learned to live with.

 


	5. king's gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (everyone's sorta in their places as we head toward the end of this thing. i ended up adding more of the Fantastic Four than i originally intended, just because... honestly, i love them, particularly in their pre-transformation days, like... i just love the characters as they are, sans powers, i think they're neat.
> 
> Victor's going through some things. Reed is going through some things. Johnny is gonna be real disappointed by the lack of Latverian fast food.)

      Without the armor, Doom was exactly an inch taller than himself--a fact that meant nothing at all when the king lay pinned beneath him, long legs splayed wide and arms outstretched, breath rasping around the bit-gag between his perfect teeth.  _Finally, a way to shut him up._  Reed could feel the desperation in every straining, frantic movement, from the hopeless upward thrust of his hips to the sustained tension in his neck and arms, muscles sharply outlined in the faint light as he pulled against the restraints. 

 _Restraints_. Nothing restrained Victor, of course, except Reed himself. This was  _his_ strength.  _His_ ability. The thing Doom  _forbade_ him to use. And now that he had the king exactly where he wanted him, he'd go at his  _own_ damned pace; maddeningly slow to start, building to a rapid canter, then easing to another halt while he kissed and teased and bit at Victor's chest and throat.

      The beads of sweat trickling over his lover’s bronze skin were a source of fascination; Reed lapped at them gently and rocked down onto his cock in quick, short strokes.

      "All you had to do... All you  _ever_  had to do... was say the word." Sharper, faster; breathing in gasps as the tip ground into his prostate and Victor slowly arched beneath him, so near the edge that his arms and legs shook. "Just tell me what you  _wanted_. What you  _ **felt**_.”

      Letting go of Victor's hands was a risky venture and he knew it, especially with the look of wild desperation in those dark eyes; Reed  _could_ manage him, he was sure of that, Doom only  _looked_  stronger, and worst case he could always slip free, it would be simple enough... but he didn't want to. He only wanted...

      His hands buried in wet, dark curls--Victor's eyes widening angrily as he pulled back, making their eyes meet.

_**God** , yes._

      "Look at me." He could barely get the words out; barely keep his grip on slick hair and skin steady enough, and his knees and hips  _ached_  from dragging this out so long but it was  _absolutely_ worth it. "Victor...” And suddenly, finally, the king was looking. Seeing, Recognizing him fully and holding nothing back.

      Everything faded from black to white as Reed woke with a gasp, unaware of anything at all except the welcome release and a vague understanding that he should take care  _not_  to moan too loudly, difficult as that was with his head swimming from dreams and... jesus, it had been so  **real**.  _Too_ real. How long had they been apart now, and he was still... 

      Still having wet dreams about someone who had, lest he forget, kicked him out of an entire country for simply writing a poorly-considered  _note_.

      Reed ran a hand wearily over his face and checked the clock. 7:50. Ten minutes before his alarm, and he barely felt as if he'd slept at all. All the aches from his dream still remained, a hot shower would help, but...

      ...But. This was a bad business and he knew it. A terrible sense of unease had settled into the pit of his stomach ever since he'd returned to America and he couldn't shake it off anymore. He'd never been one for hunches or intuition, but it was difficult to ignore, this feeling. Maybe it was Fate. Victor was always one for that concept; he wasn't a fan of it himself. The universe was far too messy for that, far too unpredictable. No. Call this what it was--a guilty conscience.

** ** ** **

      Sue's expression was unusually closed off. Not that she was ever completely open to him; that was one of the things Reed found so intriguing about her, really. The perpetual puzzle she represented. (It was unfair to her and he knew it. She deserved to be appreciated on her own merits, not based on... her resemblance to someone else. One of the many reasons he averted his attentions again, hastily.)

      "Alright, gang.” What, precisely, was the correct form of address for these informal meetings? He had no idea. But the update was necessary, so on he rolled. “We're ready to launch--nearly--and certainly will be by the time everything is ready at the Latverian facility, it's just..."

      Ben interrupted, irritably: "--His Holiness isn't taking your calls right now."

      Reed flicked a glance and a decidedly unprofessional gesture in Ben’s direction, just below the Storms’ line of sight. "...Victor hasn't responded to official channels, no." He couldn't bring himself to send anything more private. There was no way to explain that to them--his inability to bear the possibility of that crushing silence in response. Better to face Doom in person than to wait endlessly for an answer that never came.

      "Couldn't we just launch from here?" Johnny suggested.

      Reed shook his head.

      "The government would never grant me clearance. Not without..." Without handing over the keys to Victor's kingdom. Without giving them every secret he had. Things he would never, ever do. "...lengthy negotiations and serious delays." Reed finished with a shrug. "And if I tried to fund it privately, my assets would be tied up--if I’m lucky, a delay is the worst they would do. No. I’m afraid this is the only option we've got. But... I've known Victor a very long time, and he may have his moments--"

      Ben coughed quietly.

      "--but he's reasonable. I'll speak to him. He'll let us launch."

      A room full of tense glances and silence before Ben finally, hesitantly, offered him the tablet. StarkTech; he recognized the brand and felt a vague sense of betrayal that his old friend preferred the competition--then he saw the photo, in brilliant backlit color. Obviously taken from a distance with maximum zoom, the image was grainy at the edges, but clear enough all the same: Victor in all his glory, green cloak billowing behind him, towering over some small figure clutching a clipboard like a lifeline, her face hidden beneath a hardhat.

      The inconsistent lighting suggested a warehouse or--more likely--an abandoned hangar. It even looked vaguely familiar to Reed, as he stared at the grimy windows in the background.

      How easily his eyes skimmed the most relevant and frightening detail in the frame, opting instead to focus on the tall, gleaming figure of the king himself. And  **not**  on the rows of mechanized troops spread out below him in perfect, rank-and-file formations. Even if he assumed, if he were  _naive_ enough to assume, that these were all of the robotic warriors Victor had built... that would still be enough to begin the expansion he'd talked about for years. Enough to take Hungary, probably. And if he kept building them? Where next? Where couldn’t he reach? More importantly, given what he knew of how Victor’s mind worked and everything the king had access to in their shared projects... what else had he built, if these were the pieces he allowed spies to ‘infiltrate’ far enough to see?

      The vague sense of dread finally solidified into something hard and leaden in the pit of Reed's stomach. This was what he'd feared. Maybe it always had been--that someday a small piece of Utopia would not be enough.

      ‘ **Hidden Threat In Latveria** ,’ the headline read. ‘ **Is Von Doom Preparing For War?** ’

      "Stretch... I don't know what happened between the two'a you, but this? This looks like a 'Keep Out' sign," Grimm said, as gently as he could.

      Susan broke her silence, as well. "The rumor is that Latveria’s borders are closing for good, and the United States wants to sanction but doesn’t dare, so they’re just being petty about issuing visas. Reed... given your association, I don't know if our government would even let you  _out_." She sounded worried, though whether for him or for their mission, he couldn't be sure. He wanted to believe it was the former.

      "They can't really stop me." It was true on several levels at once: he was fully capable of going in under the radar, he had full citizen's rights, and legally could cross those borders as he saw fit, his own abilities made him nearly impossible to contain... but even if none of that were true... 

      He meant it in more ways than he could express and something in the tone of his voice rallied the others, even against their better judgment.

      "Okay. I think you’re probably out of your mind, but--if you're going," Ben said, a mixture of determination and resignation in his voice, "you're not going alone."

      That startled Reed out of his thoughts completely.

      "Absolutely not. You can't, Ben. You know that--"

      "--He didn't just mean himself, Reed. We all agreed to it last night. If you're going to Latveria, we're going with you. We're a team, now--we've lived together, worked together, trained together, this mission belongs to all of us. And if we get shot down in Eastern Europe by your friend from college who's... I'm sorry, but  _clearly_ taking a really bad turn in my eyes... and in the eyes of nearly everyone except your own, apparently... well, I suppose we'll all be sharing in that experience too, but I didn't come all this way to sit around waiting for others to call me in. I'm going."

      Not for the first time in the past few months, he found himself staring at Sue with open admiration, delighting in the twinkle of humor and fierce spirit in her eyes.

_(In another world, in another life... if he had half the wits he should, in **this** one, still, but his head wasn't the only one turned by her and the look on Ben Grimm's face made Reed feel... unsure of exactly **how** he should feel. Distant from them all, in some ways. Happy for them, in others. Maybe a little jealous. It was all too complicated and he felt he had no right to any of it.)_

      "Give me twenty-four hours," he said.

      It would take less than that. It had to.

* * *

      Victor stared at the phone in his hand, incongruously mundane against the delicate, interlocking silver plates that lined his palm. Light grey letters against a dark grey screen; an invitation, a request for forgiveness, a plea for attention. All in a simple string of characters:

_e4 to open._

       An assertive opening move; white pawn moves forward, leaving the kingside open. Victor knew the maneuver well. And of course, the message came from Reed.

**_e5, which leaves you with f4 to block and leads to exf4 as the logical next step. Are you not concerned that your military will assume we're passing coded secrets?_ **

_Bc4--More likely they’ll just think we’re flirting. But I need to talk to you, Victor._

_**Qh4+** _

_I need to see you._ _Kf1_

_**b5** _

      Victor paused, wrote, deleted, hesitated, and finally tapped out a message he could bring himself to send.

_**Things have changed.** _

_I'm well aware. Things are different for us both. I'm bringing guests--well, colleagues. And Ben. I’d like your promise we won’t be shot out of the sky._  
  _Bxb5_  


**_Nf6 Rethinking your strategy, Richards?_ **

_No, Victor. Just... thinking, period. _Nc3_  _

_**Let me know when an actual idea emerges, then. Meanwhile: _ **Ng4**_  **  
_

_Nh3 ...Victor, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important to me. You know that._

      For a long while, they only played; Victor offering nothing but the occasional commentary on Reed’s move, or Reed commenting on Victor’s. Any ulterior motives were set aside. This, apparently, was the price of getting what he wanted. A simple game of chess. Which wasn’t, of course--he’d led with a gambit that he knew was a trap. He wasn’t letting the king win, he was too proud for that, but... maybe there was something unconscious in it, anyway.

_Victor. Please._

_**Yes, you and your friends will be allowed to land safely. That you would even ask offends me, but such is the power of American propaganda, evidently. Ne3+ and mate in four moves. Good night, Dr Richards.** _

      Clasping the phone in unsteady hands, Reed closed his eyes tightly.  _'Things have changed.'_ Yes. They certainly had, and he had a terrible feeling that it would only get worse over time.

* * *

      Their arrival in Doomstadt was met with no fanfare--a quiet military escort, yes, but Reed had expected that. The others were more unsettled by it, even Johnny seeming on edge and quieter than usual as they were guided to their car and driven to the set of four towers that comprised Reed's European facility.

      His second home. A perfect compliment to the castle that loomed so large on the horizon, calling to him already.

      Ben and Sue exchanged a look he couldn't decipher before his old friend put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and Reed felt a curious sense of... ( ~~drifting further away~~ ) something like envy; regret.

      "Kind of a whole Hogwarts thing going on with the outside," Ben joked, the smile offered in Reed's direction strained but determined. "But the inside will be state of the art and then some."

      Odd that he'd never really noticed before that the exterior matched Victor's aesthetic ideals; carried on the trend of psuedo-old-world iconography both he and the locals seemed to either find  _actually_ charming or simply embraced as some kind of ironic joke he’d never fully understood. 'You want cobblestones and Tudor walls and ominous castles on a foreboding mountain peak?' the landscape said, 'we've  _certainly_ got it.' 

      But that was Doomstadt, which was like Disneyland with advanced robotics and laser-defended perimeters. The  _king's_ city. Beyond that, surrounding it, unseen and shielded by technology Reed himself had designed, were spires of white and chrome, sleek cars that moved through traffic on multiple levels, towers of green where their agricultural projects blossomed and filtered and cleansed the air. A future that should, he knew, belong to all of them. To the world entire.

      Except that the price of Utopia was absolute loyalty and obedience to Doom, and that... Reed would not allow the export of.

      The thing that troubled him most about the recent news, the thing that had been gnawing at him from the beginning, of course, was this: Victor could have built his machines under the ring. Hidden from any human eyes. Instead... he'd done it at the outskirts of  _this_ city. He'd  _ **wanted**_  it seen. But why? Of all the available options, why show them the stick, and not the carrot?

      "Let's get unpacked. There may be some dust, but otherwise... Yes, the equipment is much more up-to-date than the outside makes it look. I’m not Frankenstein."

      Johnny shuffled past him, bags slung over both shoulders. 

      "Just tell me there’s a McDonald’s somewhere in that village. Maybe... disguised as a tavern. Just somewhere to get a burger. Seriously. Yeah?"

* * *

      He had stopped caring what Reed did or where he went. That was no longer any business of his. The larger goal, the more important one, the thing that had rested quietly at the back of his mind for years but now demanded to be heard-- _that_ was the only thing that mattered.

      Doom was at  _peace_ , now that there  **was** only Doom. Now that all other voices had been silenced and all lesser urges swept aside.

      Which did not explain why he'd had surveillance put in, at the edges and immediate interior of Dr Richard's facility. Or why he was watching the proceedings now with such rapt attention. When the personnel files Reed forwarded to him proved incomplete by his standards, Doom had researched the trio on his own--Ben, he knew well enough, but it never hurt to dig deeper.

      The other two proved slightly more interesting, though none were a security risk, of course. That should have been all that mattered. Should have been the only information he cared about. But as he sat watching, studying the looks exchanged between Reed and the woman--was it really possible to gain a second degree in  _theoretical exobiology_? He hated her purely on  _principle_ \--and on the interactions between them, what remained in him what was still human registered a sense of loss and regret.

      The rest of him–the majority, now–scoffed at that sentimentality. The foolishness of it. He was a  _king_ , and Reed Richards was… less than a commoner. An  _American_. There had been that momentary lapse, yes; a flicker of curiosity, which had now been satisfied. There was no reason to linger on it now, though. He had a destiny to fulfill.

      Hadn’t his mother always told him so?

_(And the same monster who’d taken her had marked him; sometimes Victor wondered if these thoughts were his own or the demon’s, or of there was really any difference between the two. Sometimes he wondered just exactly how damned he was. He’d never taken a life by his own hands, but if you built the machinery, wasn’t that the exact same thing?)_

      Pulling the mask off, he gasped for air. Unfiltered, but real. That was what he needed–something real. Something to keep him from drowning in his own thoughts. His own mind.

       ~~He needed Reed.~~

      Doom needed no one. Squaring his shoulders, he drew a deep breath and replaced the mask with a dull click before shutting off the screens and displays again. Richards would come to request launch approval; that was the sole purpose of his visit. As ever, he flitted from one shiny project to another with no underlying logic, no guiding principle... this was merely his latest whim. 

      Slowly, Victor was teaching himself to hate everything about him that he’d once found endearing. He’d been close enough to this point before–it wasn’t difficult to rebuild those walls again, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I know absolutely dick about chess, I stole that whole game from a website. The original match was (supposedly?) between John William Schulten and Lionel Adalbert Bagration Felix Kieseritzky and involves the king's gambit becoming a trap in which black wins and I picked it because it's short and the name made me laugh: "Schulten Have Done That."


	6. use your words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (in which no one seems able to communicate properly and the results are very bad for all concerned tbh)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry for the delay on this, work got hectic BUT we're nearly there yo annnnd i'm gonna add a couple more chapters to this probably.)

       It angered him more than he wanted Ben to see, sitting in the foyer like any other applicant. Waiting for an audience with the king–and naturally, Victor would draw this out for a while just to make the point clear. That Reed's fall from grace was complete, his importance no greater now than the council in charge of tending hedges at the main square, with whom _his highness_  was currently meeting.

       (It hurt. And he would not show that it hurt.)

       “Here’s what we’ll do,” Ben suggested, scooting closer on the polished wooden bench. “I’ll put him in a headlock, and if he won’t sign, we break out the can opener.”

       It was impossible not to smile, if only because Ben was trying so hard to encourage one. But the expression faltered once the heavy wooden doors swung open slowly and the attendant called out his name. _Only_  his. They both stood, but a guard moved swiftly to Grimm’s side, preventing him from stepping forward. The name was repeated in a bureaucratic monotone, and Reed rolled his eyes.

       “Oh, you petty, melodramatic ass…” Under his breath, too low for the robotic servants to hear. But inwardly, a traitorous flicker of hope: Victor wanted to see him alone. That might be a good thing. Certainly, it was what he wanted, too… on some level… but he didn’t really know what he might find in that room and everything about this setup put him on edge.

       “Wait here, Ben. He’s just… you know how he is.” Shrugging, Reed adjusted his tie and flicked a hand through his hair, trying to calm his nerves, then followed the attendant inside.

       Within, all was quiet; the doors closed behind him with a soft ‘ _tick_ ’ and Reed was left to find his own way down the corridor from there, past a tall stone archway and into a space he’d actually never seen before. A castle the size of Victor’s had more rooms than could easily be appreciated–sometimes Reed wondered if the king himself had actually visited _all_  of them–but this seemed to be a meeting area, intended purely for business with minimal flourishes, laid out like a boardroom with a long, dark table and neatly-tucked seats arranged around it. At one end, polished gauntlet resting atop a high-backed chair that was clearly his own, stood Doom.

       For a few seconds, Reed’s mind went blank. Whatever he’d come where to say or do vanished completely, the weight of those honey-brown eyes resting expectantly on him was enough to drive the air from his lungs.

       “Victor…” He wished he could take it back as soon as he’d said it; harden the tone and remove the note of longing. But once it was said, it was said.

       “ **Doom** ,” the king corrected resolutely, head lifting by a fraction so that he stared down from an even greater height–as if the difference weren’t imposing enough, he had to draw _attention_  to it. Reed felt chilled, and worried; he knew that tone. He knew that coldness, the sense of distance and formality. He’d seen it all before, just after Victor had sent him away the first time. And chipping away at it then had taken him years. This… this felt impossible.

       His instinct was to refuse from sheer, stubborn _spite_  to give in. Refuse to play this game. Refuse to indulge this insanity. Refuse to give up a single scrap of the man he knew was still in there, relinquish it to a goddamned suit of armor; a legend the struggling prince had created to give his people something to rally behind when his father’s death had nearly reduced them to chaos, civil war and ruin.

       “Doom,” he echoed bitterly, fully aware that the king delighted in his acquiescence no matter how it came. It was a small enough thing to give, for now.

       “You want approval to launch,” Doom said simply, his tone neutral. Reed nodded, and attempted to explain but barely got the first syllables out. “And if I refuse? What then?”

       “Don’t.” The answer was immediate and carried a hint of anxiety, though only a hint.

       The mask tilted inquisitively; Victor knew him well enough by now to recognize desperation when he saw it.

       “Why do you want this so badly? What did you _find_  up there? The accident nearly killed you–but chances of that happening a second time are infinitesimal. If reproducing the results isn’t the goal, then what _is_?”

       Rhetorical, maybe, but Reed answered anyway.

       “A drive that enables wormhole travel, Victor. The first of its kind, and only a prototype–but the speeds required for a full test would be impossible on Earth.”

        _Now_  he had the king's attention. As intended.

 

       “Obviously, no one can know about this--that’s why I wanted to launch from here. The others know, but they’ve all signed agreements--”

       Doom approached, and Reed had to stop himself from taking a step back. He’d forgotten what it was like, to be this close to him. How overwhelming his presence could be, and how the mixed scents of sandalwood and metal and leather and something uniquely  _his own_ made everything swim just a little; dreamlike.

       “So, you would send them while you stay on the ground, safe from your own design–in the event of failure…” The king sounded amused.

       Reed eyed him as steadily as he could.

       “In the _unlikely_  event of failure, they’ll need someone to bring them _home_ , Victor.”

       Eyes darkening behind the mask, his hand extended slowly toward Reed’s face. The doctor didn’t try to avoid it, but didn’t move towards it, either. There was a muted series of clicks as it closed into a fist and lowered again.

       “I will sign off on this endeavor,” he announced. “But there is a great deal you _aren’t_  telling me, and I will uncover it.”

       Reed smiled sadly.

       “You don’t trust me?”

       “I _know_  that you’re lying. I simply don’t know what _about_.”

 

       What compelled him to get closer, he didn’t know. Baiting Victor in this state was never wise, but backing down… no. He couldn’t bring himself to do that, either. And the compulsion to touch him was like an itch in his mind; a frustrating irritant he’d have done anything to soothe.

       Still, all he could seem to do was get close–insert himself into Victor’s space and silently dare him to do something about it as he handed over the paperwork.

       (It reminded him of college, just a little.)

       Only after the signing was complete did he dare anything further.

       “I missed you. When I said that I needed to see you, I really hoped I might actually _see_ you.”

       Victor froze, and Reed held his breath, unsure of what to expect. This could go a lot of ways, and most of them were… less than ideal. A shudder of breath stirred the hood--he couldn’t see his eyes or any part of the masked face at all from this angle, could only wait to see what his words might manifest in his old friend.

       “ **Get out.** ” A harsh, metallic voice. _Doom’s_  voice. But there was an edge to it; a hint of feeling that still betrayed him.

       No matter how much he wanted to be like his perfect metal warriors, he was still human after all. And now, Reed was certain of it.

* * *

The next several weeks were spent preparing, with frequent progress reports made to Victor–just as with any of their projects, though this time he offered little input of his own.

  
_from: **Reed Richards** <drrichards@doomstadt.sci.ltv>_  
_to: doom@doomstadt.ltv_  
_date: Wed, Oct 25, 2017 at 9:35 PM_  
_subject: **Status Report Project IV:01:00**_

  
Dear Victor,

I’ve cut the surveillance feeds from our primary work areas, I trust you understand that the risk of a security leak was simply too great. I will gladly update you on our progress personally, of course, including any specs you require through properly encoded channels.

The launch platform is nearly complete, our capsule will seat three occupants; much of the space will be needed for the ship’s failsafe engines and our prototype. Full mission details are enclosed, your biometrics will unlock them automatically.

I also noticed that you pulled the personnel files for the crew. There’s little in them of interest, so I’ll fill in the gaps with my own impressions; Ben is brave, loyal, capable, and far more intelligent than he lets on. Sue is a cool head under pressure, good at thorough planning and optimizing resources; to offer a personal opinion, I find her… fearless, tenacious, and frankly, formidable. She is... an astonishing woman. Naturally, I’ve chosen her as team leader. Her brother, Johnathan, is less mature and perhaps less polished than I might like, but more than makes up for it in energy, enthusiasm, and determination. His mechanical gifts rival Ben's, but never tell Ben that I said that.

Group synergy in an experiment like this is vital, of course; these individuals are well-suited to the potential challenges they face, in no small part because of the strong bonds between them, but their individual strengths are also remarkable. I think you would be very pleased with them, if you didn't hate people in a general sense, of course,

============================================

  
_from: **Victor von Doom** <doom@doomstadt.ltv>_  
_to: drrichards@doomstadt.sci.ltv_  
_date: Thurs, Oct 26, 2017 at 5:04 AM_  
_subject: **Re: Status Report Project IV:01:00**_

  
Dr. Richards,

Having reviewed the enclosed details, I am satisfied with the progress thus far. Your program may continue, but the perimeter must be secured for both the launch and the return. I will not endanger civilians or allow you to draw unwanted scrutiny through this display. It must be done with discretion.

Press concerns must be sent through our public relations office, as always. They are prepared to handle all queries.

Regarding your "team," you know already my opinion on Grimm--a sub-par mechanic with little to offer the world beyond his ability to also catch an oblong ball on occasion. The younger Storm sibling seems to be cut from the same cloth, though with even less maturity and discernment. A perfect pair of lab specimens, but little else.  
But what of the esteemed (and quite lovely) Dr Storm? Based on your glowing review, I find it hard to believe you'd be willing to risk _her_ life in your little experiment. You've quite fallen in love with her, haven't you?

============================================

  
_from: **Reed Richards** <drrichards@doomstadt.sci.ltv>_  
_to: doom@doomstadt.ltv_  
_date: Thurs, Oct 26, 2017 at 10:13 AM_  
_subject: **Re: Re: Status Report Project IV:01:00**_

  
Dear Victor,

The launch will, of course, be discreet. I'll follow the usual protocol--we're old hands at this by now, aren't we?

I will admit that your questions about Sue confuse me. I try to maintain a professional distance from the team for obvious reasons, though yes, she _has_ made an impression. I guess you could say that she's... easy to love? Though I have other things on my mind, of course.

  
Two days to finish the work. I'll send further updates as they come. Be patient, old friend. This will be worth it, I promise you.

* * *

  
_'Easy to love.’_

       Doom sat sprawled, the mask dangling from curled fingers. The air tasted strange without it; unclean in some way. Bloodshot brown eyes glared across at the dim letters, unblinking in their focus.

_'Easy to love.’_

       And he was not. That much was simple enough to comprehend--he was impossible. He'd gone out of his way to become precisely that. It should come as no surprise at all, and on some level... it didn't. Not really. This was natural; inevitable. There was a sense of rightness to it, as though yes, this was part of his destiny, too. (His mother had never mentioned this part, but one could not be expected to know _everything_.)

       The screen sat glowing malevolently at him, that passage centered mockingly. Doom stared at it in silence for a few long seconds before lifting his hand and closing it decisively, letting a brief wave of magic fry the internal components as bolts and crackles of white spread across the mirrored black surface; those offensive words obliterated completely, replaced instead by his own scarred image.

      Victor stared at it with dry-eyed loathing.

                                                                                  _'Easy to love.’_

      So be it. If Richards could not love him, then there were other, equally strong emotions that could bind two people together--love was feeble in comparison to what he _could_  forge. And would; but more important things awaited his attention first. His destiny was still there, still waiting for him to claim it, he'd only held back out of... sentimentality and foolishness. It was time to move on.

* * *

       The final burst of energy that carried them through to completion of the launchpad build was buoyant; fatigue in its best form, shared and therefore lessened, eased further by the unwavering faith that they were about the change the world.

       (They were. They really, truly were. No one doubted it, the science was sound.)

       Reed watched them all, just as caught up in the excitement as they all were but trying not to show it too terribly much--trying to stay focused on his work. (Trying not to let them see how terrified he was of all the ways that this could go wrong; all the ways it could go right; all the variables he was juggling and hiding and hoping to account for correctly.)

* * *

       Across the city in his own lab, Victor began work on the final step in his own plan; using blueprints that he'd left untouched for years, ignored purely for the sake of one person. For the happiness of one fickle, heartless, disloyal human being--he'd left his country unprotected.

       Staring at the plans now, hands splayed wide against dark blue grids etched with meticulous lines, Doom understood perfectly: the purpose of such weaponry, of something this horrific, was simply for it to _exist_. It would never be used, never be fired, but it must _exist_ \--after all, what good was a gun if it was never loaded? Build this, build any of them frankly, and no one would dare even _question_ his sovereignty again. But if you combined an arsenal like that to the mechanized troops ready to begin full-scale production...

       Holding the curled paper pinned between widespread arms, Victor smiled slowly behind the mask.

       He could take most of Europe, for starters. With effort, with strategy, with enough planning and yes, some regrettable sacrifices... in the long term... this world could be his. And no one would ever see it coming.

       As consolation prizes went, it wasn't the _worst_ , certainly. 


	7. volta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Italian word for “turn.” In a sonnet, the volta is the turn of thought or argument: in Petrarchan or Italian sonnets it occurs between the octave and the sestet, and in Shakespearean or English before the final couplet."

 

       There’d been no word from any official source (no word from _Victor_ ) since the last irritable message and though the silence troubled him, Reed had no time to address it. Not now. Not with so much left to do, so many small details to get right, so many tests to run and re-run. Nothing could be left to chance; no risk could be left unaccounted for. The dangers they faced were great enough already.

       Ben certainly understood that. He put a brave face on it, as always–Reed knew the signs well enough by now; the borderline-inappropriate fits of humor, the over-cautious handling of equipment or (conversely) carelessness with things unrelated to their work such that he almost seemed accident-prone. Small signs that the strain was getting to him, overlaid by a stubborn insistence that everything was fine. A grand show, offered up so that others wouldn't worry.

       Not just about him, but because Grimm understood his place in the order of things as senior to the others on the project and knew that if his nerve failed, it would shake the Storms' confidence, too.

       Reed watched in admiration and struggled to find the right words. Ben had seen the aftermath of his own accident--not the immediate, of course. Only Victor had witnessed that. Had looked in through the porthole window of the pressurized room and talked endlessly, had chided and teased and _demanded_ that he keep trying, that he try _harder_ , that he remember his body's shape and _hold_ it until Reed finally managed those first unsteady steps outside the sealed door simply to shut him up... but it had worked. He wasn't sure that Ben could have applied that kind of pressure; his kindness may have proven fatal.

       Still, he'd seen enough once Reed had come home to understand the dangers and maybe that was what he feared now.

       (Under no circumstances would he let himself dwell on that thought. He couldn't bear it.)

       "We need to talk, Ben." German beer was the only kind one could get in Latveria that was worth drinking--it had no effect on Reed's system at all, but he offered the second of two ice-cold bottles to his friend and had a seat beside him anyway, allowing a decent interval before speaking again.

       "If it's about what the locals pass off as 'lager,' then yeah, we do. That's just foamy brown water with an aftertaste. Do these people know they're being deprived?"

       Reed smiled against the rim of his bottle. Humor. That was expected.

       "Would it surprise you at all if I said that the whole scheme was Victor's idea? A way of keeping their exposure to alcohol at a minimum while covertly allowing 'contraband' imports of beer and wine? But we're not here to discuss Victor's government. Or Victor at all, ideally." The bitterness in his voice said more than enough; at least, he hoped it did.

       Ben sipped thoughtfully.

       "You wanna talk about the trip."

       "I do, yes. I want to talk about why you're worried."

       A soft grunt from his friend. "Let me think... we're going into space to test something that might turn us inside-out--and no, I don't care if that's a bazillionth of a percent chance, what happened to you was a bazillionth of a percent chance too, look how well that went--" Ben winced, and stopped. "Sorry, Reed. I didn't mean that the way it came out. There's nothing wrong with how you are, it's not that. It's. When they brought you home. I'm saying everything all wrong and you think I'm scared for myself. You think I'm a coward--"

       Reed blinked rapidly. Fear becoming anger. This was... normal, he was reasonably sure. He'd seen this before, felt it himself. It was natural.

       "I don't think that at all, Ben. I know you better than that--"

       "--It ain't me I'm scared for, Reed. It's those two kids inside. What do we do if things go wrong for them, have you thought about that? Do you have the figures for how they'll cope with the rest of their lives, assuming they're alive to live 'em? Or how we'll cope with _ours_ if we _lose '_ em? 'Cause I don't."

       Downing half his beer, Ben set the bottle down and drew a deep, shaky breath.

       "Tastes bitter," he announced. "Look. I know we're gonna do this anyway, and they signed on for it. They're grown-ups. ...Well... not so sure about Johnny, I think he may just be three toddlers in a trenchcoat doused with Axe, but... they knew what they were getting into. It just scares the hell out of me sometimes, that's all. Doesn't it scare you?"

       Head down, Reed stared into the opening at the top of his empty bottle. Into the black hole of it; the abyss in small scale.

       "Of course it does," he said. "It terrifies me."

  
**       **       **       **       **       **

       But when launch day came, Dr Richards felt only two things: the hollow sense of dread that had by now become a familiar companion to him, and kind of eerie calm that made all the rest seem… simple. Not easy, of course. It should never be easy. But mechanically, he could perform the actions, deliver the words, be the man they all needed, his misgivings neatly tucked away.

       He didn’t need a metal mask to hide his feelings.

       Outside on the launchpad, the ship practically gleamed in the sunlight--white trimmed with sky blue. All his. All _theirs_. And not a trace of Latverian anything to be found on it.

       From his station inside, Reed watched on the monitors closely: a quick flash of nervous smiles from the cockpit. A hasty thumbs-up from Ben. Sue’s face in profile, trapped behind her visor as she studied the console lights.

       It was her voice he heard first:

       “Test Flight Four to Ground Control, systems are operational… everything looks good here, Reed. Do we have clearance?”

       Startled out of his reverie, Dr Richards scrambled to get to his equipment and respond.

       “Everything looks good here, Sue. Er. Dr Storm.”

       Muffled laughter from the capsule. Ben’s and Johnny’s. Reed felt his cheeks burn.

       “Thank you, Dr Richards. Preparing for lift-off in three… two… one…”

       It went off without a single hitch--exactly as he'd known it would. Everything proceeding flawlessly. He waited for them to break through the atmosphere and get free of the debris field surrounding Earth, remembering his own trip far too well. Space junk. Discarded rubbish from so many other adventurers and explorers. The thought of it had made him sad at the time--just now, it barely crossed his mind at all.

       Reed listened to the chatter as the rocket gathered speed, burning one fuel cell after another to overcome the lack of gravity; moving quicker and quicker until the final moment when the drive could finally be engaged.

       When the moment finally came, he sat as still as he could make himself be and waited--breath held, hands gripping the table, feeling the awful sense of dread finally blossom into a thing full-born and living. A mixture of guilt and terror that made his hands shake as he switched off the control room mic.

       The drive was designed to fail. On paper, it looked reasonable; the level of understanding required to know why it wouldn't work was too high for most. He'd counted on that. Victor had seen the functional design. His team members had, too. But the one in his reports, the official version, the one being shared with the world, would fail. And even that was not the version in the capsule with them now. The one being engaged when the switch was flipped was... essentially... a bomb. One designed to do precisely one thing, based on the mutagens in his own cells; based on the radiation he'd been bombarded with in space himself. One designed to give the earth three people capable of protecting it in ways that he could not.

       Assuming it didn't kill them, first.

       Reed sat at the controls, mic switched off, forcing himself to listen to the sounds of increasing panic from inside the cramped shuttle, shaking so violently that he had to hold the headset on with his hands.

       He had to know the outcome. He had to know they were alright and he deserved– _he **deserved**_ to carry this memory with him for the rest of his life: Ben, trying valiantly to reassure the others. Still trying to hail him on comms. Sue, breathing heavily, keeping a level head, but he could hear the hitch in her voice, still. Johnny, voice shrill with pain until the last, quiet: “I don’t want to die up here, Sue.” And then white noise as the radiation reached maximum.

       Silence crackled in the capsule. No voices, no signs of life. Either the monitors had short-circuited or…

       Reed produced a strangled sob and threw the headset off, curling in on himself and keening softly, arms winding around his own body in a desperate attempt to soothe what could never be made right again.

       The shuttle would touch down again in two hours. He had to pull himself together. If they were dead… He couldn’t do this again; he knew that now. He wasn’t like Victor. Sending others to die, he could never do that again. If someone had to stand against Latveria... he would find some other way, this couldn't be it. This was... madness. He saw that now. It was the same kind of madness that had infected Victor, really--creating an army in his own image.

       A flicker of light on the screen caught his eye and Reed felt as if his own heart might stop. Life signs. Three sets. Fluctuating, just as his had done, but… strong. Living. Safe. He’d done it. He’d done it, and they were alive.

       …God help them, they were _still alive_.

* * *

       Ben woke in a small room, grateful to be alive but wondering why everything felt so damned heavy. Was it the air? Maybe the place was vacuum-sealed–Reed had mentioned a room like this when he’d come back from space, wasn’t that what they did with divers, too? So they wouldn’t get the bends?

       Yeah. That was it. The bends.

       (He remembered the screaming. Reed hadn’t responded. SOMETHING WENT WRONG YOU IDIOT, PAY ATTENTION. But he wouldn’t listen to that voice in his mind right now. The voice of doubt. He just needed rest, that was all. Must've been knocked for a loop up there.)

       A glimpse of craggy, pitted orange caught his eye. Ben blinked and reached for it–with a hand covered in the same hardened, scaly rock as his own chest, rising and falling just within his field of vision.

       A bazillionth of a percentage chance.

       No way could lightning strike twice in the same spot.

       Unless you were Reed Richards; a man smart enough to make the ultimate lightning rod.

* * *

       The containment chambers he’d built had assumed a similar set of mutations to his own. Reed recognized the error now, as the alarms blared and Ben began tearing his way through a reinforced metal wall.

       There was no contingency plan for this. There was no backup. Reed had heard a howl of pain and rage and then the crash and… what could he do but run? All the documents that could implicate Victor were destroyed already, the blame would fall squarely on him–but Latveria had no extradition treaty and this, too, was part of his design from the beginning. To remain here.

       He just hadn’t intended to do it quite like this.

       When the authorities came, they were a mixture of Latverian troops and American agents from something called SHIELD. Apparently, someone had been monitoring the broadcast. “ _Someone_.” Reed could easily guess who. He stood aside as Ben was subdued, as his teammates, his _friends_  were removed, two of them still unconscious, all of them taken into custody for their own safety.

       When the same suited SHIELD agent stepped up to arrest Reed, an armored hand quickly pushed him back. Not Victor’s–the king was conspicuously absent–but one of his guards. Andrei. Reed was reasonably sure that was the name.

       “He is not your citizen.” The man said, his English crisp and flawless. “He is not under your jurisdiction. Lord Doom will deal with him. You may go.”

       “Okay.” The agent agreed, smiling benignly. “That’s cool. But, Dr Richards, I want you to understand something. We’re not done here. _SHIELD_ isn’t done here. I don’t know what you’ve done to those people or why you did it, but we’re going to find out. And we’re going to make it our business to see you in a little glass box without so much as a slide-rule for the next fifty years. Hell, we might get your little tin dictator too, if he had a hand in this, and I’m kinda thinking he did, since you’re on his leash–I mean payroll–just something to consider the next time you fire up one of your mad science machines. Have a good day.”

       Once the room was emptied, except for the king’s guards, Reed sagged against the desk. There was too much to take in, and all of it for what?

       (For one man. In a certain sense. And for the whole world, in another. Sacrifice two knights and a queen to put the king in check. It had seemed reasonable, at the time. It had seemed... did love make everyone into some kind of monster, or just the people who were monsters already?)

       “Take me to him,” he said, finally. “I don’t care if he wants to see me or not. He _has_ to see me, after all this. Take me to Doom. **Now**.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i apologize... but yeah that was always where this was going. soooooo onward, and this may gain some chapters soon cause... yes.)


	8. shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (the conclusion... which... well, there's a lot left unfinished, but it's as done as it can be for now i think)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,—  
> Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life"  
>  \--Sarah Williams, "The Old Astronomer" (1868)

       Eight hours ago, Victor had listened in on a "secured" channel as four people’s lives took an irrevocable turn. Had recognized Reed’s guilty silence for exactly what it was, and wondered what to make of that recognition.

       Four hour ago, he’d pored over the schematics and security footage again to search for answers; for clues. For any sign that the unthinkable had truly happened--that his own senses had deceived him, that the great Reed Richards had made a catastrophic error, that it had all been exactly what the best-case scenario claimed: a simple accident.

       He knew better, deep down, but part of him still wanted to believe it all the same.

**      **      **      **      **      **

       Approximately thirty minutes ago, he’d accepted the truth and pulled out an old photo from college of the three of them; Reed and Ben smiling in the foreground while he stood to one side, scowling at them both. So petty in his pride, his covetousness of Reed’s every last scrap of attention that he couldn’t even share the wink of a camera’s shutter with someone else.

       The two had been friends since grade school, Victor knew that much. And the Storm siblings were innocents completely--he still wasn’t sure that Reed harbored no feelings toward Susan at all--why would he sacrifice so much for so little? Why sabotage his own work?

       There were so many things the king understood so well, things he could teach himself in a day or a week at most; he’d mastered the piano as a child without tutors, he’d taken up painting the same way, mechanics and engineering came just as easily--some aspects of the world made an intuitive sense that he could never articulate plainly to others. It was felt and known, but impossible to describe. He just... _knew_. And occasionally, that _knowing_ included _people_. More often that not, it didn’t. Humans and their motivating forces were a vast mystery to him and always had been--Reed more than most.

**      **      **      **      **      **

       The guards didn’t bother announcing his arrival; Victor had known he was due for fifteen minutes now, and the robotic guards never spoke anyway, at least not out loud.

       Standing next to the fire, arm propped against the mantelpiece, still holding the photo in one closed fist, Victor stared at Reed as if he’d never seen him before. As a king, he should--by rights, he knew--have the man sent away before he brought the whole damned UN council and SHIELD and Interpol and every other unwanted agency into his country. Victor felt… _betrayed_. And confused. Was this not the man he knew? The one he'd always known? Had his influence... was this somehow... his own doing? How had it happened? And why?

       Richards had lost his lab coat, but was once again in the dark blue, reinforced suit with its familiar black trimmings. Hair tousled, and unless Victor imagined it, with a touch more grey at the temples than before, too. A further glance and he realized there’d been a bit of weight loss as well--the sharp angle of one hip bone made his chest ache and that was as much as he dared to let himself feel before tackling the subject at hand:

       “I have eyes and ears everywhere in this kingdom, Reed--they tell me what, but they cannot tell me _why_.” The name had been a slip, and one the king cursed himself for. He would be careful not to repeat it.

       “You haven’t worked it out yet? Victor… I’m… a little disappointed, honestly.”

       Stepping away from the fire, mask half-tilting in surprise at the sheer _audacity_  of this man, Doom simply stared.

       “You’re… _disappointed_.” Dark eyes narrowing behind the mask, he considered shoving the photo into Reed’s hands and letting his guilt do the rest--but something told him that wouldn’t work.

       Reed licked his lips and began.

       “I did it because someone will need to _stop_ you. If not now, then... someday. You’re not the only one with spies, Victor--I know you’ve dusted off the weapon plans, and how many times have I heard you talk about 'expanding your kingdom,' as you so delicately put it? You mean to take over the world. Perhaps not now, but eventually--that was always your dream. You've always considered that your destiny, haven't you, Victor? Your mother planted the seed, others have nurtured it... I played a part in that, too.”

       And now Doom's eyes were widening again, if only for a second before he regained control--gleaming silver arms folded across his chest and cold disdain in his voice.

       “Your plan was to irradiate three people and _hope_ they developed mutations sufficient to stop an _army_ of metal warriors? To stop an arsenal the likes of which this Earth has never _seen_? Richards, you have fully lost your mind, and I do not say that lightly. You need care."

       “Victor, I’ve never been more clear-headed in my life. All the time I’ve spent in your castle, watching you, seeing your methods, learning from you--do you think I couldn’t manage a simple scrying lens? I’ve seen what stops you in other worlds. And it’s always me, and those three people. But in this world… it can’t be. Because in this world…” Head lowered, Reed drew a long, unsteady breath and released it as something like a laugh. “You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d just take the mask off, first.”

       The king didn't move, beyond scowling. He seemed frozen in place, unable to fully process what he was hearing. Maybe just unwilling to do so. Reed nodded acceptance and went on all the same, as if this were the expected outcome.

       “…In this world, I’m compromised. In this world, I fell in love with someone, and maybe that was it, maybe _that_  was how I was meant to stop you, but I ran from it. Just like I run from everything; just like I’m running now, really, from what I did to Ben and the others… but at least I’m running **to**  something instead of just away. You’re not going to make any part of this easy, are you? You never do. On _any_ world, evidently.”

       Reed’s heartrate had spiked; the sensors in Doom’s faceplate told him that. His body temperature was rising as well, and he seemed… incoherent, or nearly so.

       “State the truth plainly,” the king advised. His words sounded distant; bloodless and disengaged from these proceedings. Inwardly, Victor felt as if his heart might actually burst from all the conflicting emotions overfilling it in this moment.

       The mask stayed on. _It had to._

       “I should have told you that night,” Reed said. “That I felt the same. I don’t know why I didn’t--we’ve played this game for so long now, you and I, we never really acknowledged the damage we did to one another. That either of us still had hearts left to break, that we might be afraid of risking too much… well, I’m risking everything now. And that’s part of my plan, too.”

       Abruptly, Reed sank to one knee, as if he were proposing. Victor gripped his cloak and swept it back, just barely preventing himself from taking an involuntary step away from that innocuous, kneeling figure. (This should _not_ terrify him. Why did getting _exactly what he wanted most_ make his palms itch, his heart gallop like a goddamned race horse?)

       “I’ve given up my American citizenship. I owe loyalty to only one country, and one person. **_You_**.” Reed’s brown eyes met his own. “ _My king_. And to Latveria, your kingdom. If you refuse, then I have nothing--I’m literally at your mercy, Victor--”

       One metal boot clanged forward; Doom’s initial shock finally giving way to his natural suspicion.

       “You seek asylum here because you've run afoul of the law in your own country! This is a calculated move; do not _toy_ with me, you honorless-–”

       “ _Goddamn_ it, Victor… fine, if it will put your constant paranoia at rest, I’ll request asylum elsewhere! Don’t you see what I was trying to do?” Reed stood, dusting off his hands and glaring as he approached. The king made no move to avoid, even as nimble fingers reached for the clasps on his mask.

       “‘State it plainly,’ you said? Here’s the simplest version, just to catch you up: the plans for a functional warp drive are in your possession. You and I have the only existing copies; everyone else received fakes. Likewise, your signature. I needed a copy so that I could forge it--and that forgery will be proven. The record will show that you had no ties to any of this. I sacrificed my reputation as a scientist, my friendship with Ben, my home… all of it. I gave the world the only three people who could protect it--not just from you, there are others--and I saved the technology for us, because I couldn’t sacrifice _this_. I couldn’t sacrifice  ** _you_**.”

       The mask came away in his hand and hit the floor with a clatter. Reed’s look of relief nearly matched Victor’s expression of fear and uncertainty as those same hands cupped his face.

        “I love you, Victor. Don’t you _know_ that by now?”

       Reed felt, more than heard, the gauntlets hit the floor at his feet; Doom’s hands were roughened from being inside them the past few months, but still warm and human as they covered the backs of his, thumbs stroking gently.

       “Your idiocy knows no bounds,” Victor breathed, eyes closed as he fought the impulse for a half-second longer, ultimately failed, and finally pulled Reed in to kiss him, unsure if it was more of an angry kiss or a desperately needful one, but still gasping insults every time they paused for air and showing no signs of relenting soon.

       Reed was attempting not to laugh. Or possibly cry; he wasn’t completely sure just yet. He’d still done what he’d done and this happiness felt wholly undeserved, and yet…

       There was Victor’s happiness to consider, too. Was _that_  deserved? In this world, at least?

       Head resting against his shoulder, fingers clenched in folds of green cloth, Reed knew that neither of them did--not yet, anyway. It would have to be earned. But love didn’t concern itself with things like that. Larger moral considerations faded into the background simply because he could see the way Victor’s lips moved when he spoke and kiss the calloused palms of his hands.

       Victor, meanwhile, was wondering if Reed had realized yet that the three people he’d transformed had been given no cause at all to hate _him_  and every reason in the world to despise their creator; a fact that made him even more determined to continue his efforts. Latveria must be protected, of course, and expansion… someday. But Reed’s enemies were now his as well, and to the very core of him, Victor von Doom wanted to crush that threat before it ever cast a shadow over his beloved.

       “It was unbearable in school,” he murmured, tracing a fingernail under Reed’s lower lip. “Always craving your attention, but hating when I had it. I wanted you to look at me with such admiration… but you looked _through_ me instead, thinking--I suppose--about the ideas I'd presented you with. Maddening, when one wishes to be adored.”

       “Unbearable in school? And how is it now?”

       Victor shrugged, thumb sliding along Reed’s chin, fingers still brushing his lips in fascination.

       “Manageable.” A pause; he was reluctant to reveal more. To show his cards, too; let Reed see what was really behind the curtain. “I was willing to substitute fear for adoration, for a while. I was, at least, willing to try.”

       Reed recalled much too clearly the hand around his throat and struggling to gain friction against the hard, smooth metal of Victor’s armored thigh.

       “We should have a much longer discussion about that later,” he murmured, catching the tip of Victor’s finger in his mouth and sucking playfully at it, his tongue curling against the print-side, where it tasted like a new penny.

       The king made a sound that was less a humm of pleasure than a growl of pent-up _need_ , pulling his hand away and kissing Reed instead, biting at his lips and digging one hand into his hair until Reed arched closer, hips pressed awkwardly to Victor’s girded ones. The hand in his hair kept his head back; throat bare as Victor licked teasingly along the pulse-point, off-hand unzipping the suit to reveal more skin before it skirted down to stroke him through the reinforced material, his grip catching hard enough to nearly hurt just as his teeth sank into the soft skin of Reed’s collarbone.

       “Bed--” Reed gasped out. “Please. I don’t even care how--”

       Victor let go of him all at once and he staggered a few steps into very thing, turning just in time to catch the last flickers of spell fire glittering in the air around them like green fireflies.

       Magic. Of _course_ , magic. Which he still considered just a different form of science, but as long as it got then to where they needed to be… He didn’t much care, right now. His sole concern was getting Doom’s cloak off, then his helm, then the belt and tunic and dear god _why_ did this man wear so many _layers?_

       “Keep going,” Victor whispered huskily, amused by the desperation.

       “You _could_ help,” Reed noted peevishly.

       “Yes, I could.” The devilish smirk did interesting things to the scar that cut across Victor’s face; even more interesting ones to his dark eyes, brightening them in a way that just made Reed dig his fingers into the seams harder to unlock the final few pieces.

       “Fuck you, Victor.”

       The king pulled him to his feet, twisting his arm around behind him--not that it mattered in the least, he could easily have freed himself and they both knew it--this was more about his willingness to follow the rules than anything else. Reed moaned softly and let himself be held there, wrist pulled up between his shoulder blades as Victor unzipped his suit very, very slowly.

       “Keep fighting,” Doom murmured, teasing a kiss just below his ear. “That defiance is one of the things I admire about you.”

       “We’re _definitely_ going to have that talk,” Reed half-laughed, helping Victor strip the suit away and pausing to simply bask in the feel of skin on skin; their bodies and the way they fit together. The way Victor held him, one hand holding his in place while the other traced his body slowly, as though setting it to memory--or reading it back to check that everything was still the same, which seemed more likely after so long apart.

       And he could feel exactly how hard the king was; his cock was pressed between their bodies, in the perfect position for Reed to squirm and rut against him.

       Victor retaliated by shoving Reed onto the bed and gripping his hips, teasing at his entrance until the whining and the steady rhythm of Reed’s hand on his own cock made the invitation obvious; one long, hard stroke and the two settled into a brutal pace; the king nearly silent and Reed babbling in ecstacy, “Yes, Victor, please--harder--don’t stop--” Doom’s willpower, even after this long, still allowed him to hold back. He wanted this to last, in any event--every second they spent together was sacred and this had gone too quickly already, the fact that it had been such a raw, animal coupling, that they weren’t even looking at one another…

       But on the other hand, Reed curled beneath him and thrusting, just as eager and wanton and impossible to fully control or contain as their first time--that was intoxicating and the scent of him as Victor shifted his position slightly and rested one elbow near his lover's, breathing him in as their fingers interlocked--

       “My king--” A half-second, and the world simply froze in suspended perfection. Those words, completely unbidden, from Reed’s lips. Victor heard the gasp that followed and felt him come absolutely unglued beneath him, felt the long spasms around his length and then there was only bliss, and the low, harsh sounds of Reed’s fading pleasure, and his own shuddering breaths until the everything stopped spinning again. Somehow, they’d both collapsed onto the bed and twisted around one another, too spent to move any further.

       “My love,” Victor whispered, so quietly it was hard to believe the words had been spoken at all, against the back of Reed’s neck.

       “Say that again in the morning?” Reed asked, fingers intertwined with the king’s as he pulled both arms tighter around him.

       “Gladly,” Doom said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (might do some more with this setting later, we'll see)


End file.
